


From Beneath the Wicked Earth

by Eclaire-de-Lune (RoyalHeather)



Series: From Beneath the Wicked Earth [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, Darkest Timeline, Feral Behavior, Learning to trust, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survival Horror, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-19 07:18:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14232144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/Eclaire-de-Lune
Summary: During the fight with Vecna, a death knight banishes Grog to the Shadowfell. But instead of returning immediately, Grog is stuck there for years. When he finally is brought back, he discovers that the only member of Vox Machina to survive is Keyleth and that Vecna has turned Exandria into a blighted hellscape. Can the two of them together defeat Vecna when their entire party could not?AKA the Critical Role fic that absolutely no one asked for.





	1. penumbra

The death knight raises a hand, traces orange symbols through the air. Grog stops mid-swing as runes surround him, hot and bright. Light flashes, and the world goes gray.

Heart pounding, Grog stares around him at black stone and dark clouds. He stands in a gaping crater, jagged rocks pressing into the soles of his boots. Gloomstalkers wheel through the air and no one else is near. After the constant din of battle the silence echoes, his pulse pounding magnified in his ears.

With a screech a gloomstalker twists down towards him, and the others follow. They’re heading for _him._ Grog glances around frantically but there’s no structures, nothing left of the ruined city –

Roaring, Grog spins his bloodaxe and summons rage from the pit of his belly. “WHO WANTS SOME?” he bellows as the black cloud of gloomstalkers rushes at him. The front gloomstalker screams, pointed jaws open wide. In one swing Grog separates head from body, green-black blood spraying over him. The corpse tumbles to the ground as more gloomstalkers swoop in.

Black claws and shadow wings surround him, and Grog strikes wildly in front, right, left, back again. His axe connects with bone and muscle, acid blood burning on his bare skin. Sharp teeth fasten on his shoulder and he shouts more in anger than pain. Reaching behind him he seizes its leathery neck and _squeezes._

The gloomstalker gurgles and Grog wrenches it away, tearing its teeth out of him, and hurls it at a flying gloomstalker. They both crash to the ground, wings flailing. But several more swarm him and Grog swings with reckless anger. Fucking _birds,_ he doesn’t have time for this, he has to help his friends –

His axe isn’t hitting anything anymore. Muscles burning, heart pounding, Grog stops swinging. The red haze clears from his vision. All around him lie broken gloomstalkers, some corpses, some still screaming and struggling feebly. Grog looks up to the sky to see if more approach, but it’s clear… for now.

“Fuck,” growls Grog. His pendant pulses painfully, glowing red, he has to get back, _he has to get back._ He spins wildly in place, maybe there’s a portal or something. But the landscape around him is barren and bleak, black jagged mountains in the distance and nothing else.

“Someone get me out!” he shouts over the earring, but no one responds. They’re too far away. Desperation burns in his chest.

In a flash of inspiration he remembers, the cards. Throwing the bag of holding to the ground Grog plunges his fist in, thinks _cards_ with all his might, and his fingers seize on the leather pouch. “Come on,” Grog mutters under his breath, fingers large and clumsy on the pouch drawstrings. “Take me back –”

The deck slides over his fingers, glossy and jewel-bright. Closing his eyes, Grog breathes hard through his nose, takes the top card, and flips it over.

Nothing happens.

Cracking one eye open, Grog peers at the card in his hand. The picture on it is talons, a large clawed foot like an eagle’s. The card glows with a soft golden light for a brief second and vanishes. So does the rest of the deck.

And his Titanstone Knuckles.

And the bag of holding.

“Uh.”  Grog freezes, waiting. Maybe they’ll come back.

His dwarven belt is gone, and Grog’s hand flies up to his jaw. Beard is still there, at least.

Other items have disappeared too – the dragon tooth Shale gave him, and his bloodaxe, and there’s a cold empty spot on his chest where the pendant once hung. He has his clothes, and not much else. Grog stands with empty hands, in the middle of the echoing gray and black Shadowfell, surrounded by the stinking corpses of gloomstalkers, and he doesn’t know what to do.

A hoarse screech sounds above him. Grog looks up to see more gloomstalkers approaching, many more. He bleeds from multiple wounds he hadn’t noticed in his rage, and his axe is gone, and Grog’s stupid but he’s not _that_ stupid.

He runs.

\--

Maybe his gray skin helps him blend in. Grog makes it out of the crater unattacked and crosses the plain at a steady jog, the black marks of gloomstalkers in the sky slowly getting smaller. The silence is awful. It presses in on his ears like wool, endless _nothing,_ no birds or wind or any other noises. Just his heavy footfalls on the ashy ground and his own breath.

Grog heads for nearby hills, craggy mounds of black rock poking out of the ground. They’ll offer more shelter than the open land. They don’t look more than half an hour away, but Grog keeps moving towards them, and they don’t get closer. His feet hit the ground at a workhorse pace, _dum-dum-dum-dum,_ his lungs working like bellows. Keep going. He has to keep going.

With nothing to do but run his mind goes to his friends. They’re fighting out there, somewhere. He hopes they’re fighting, and not – _no._ Memories flash through Grog’s mind, Percy lying broken in shards of glass, Pike pierced on a demon’s claw, Scanlan curled up limp and small in his arms. Growling in frustration, Grog pushes himself faster. He’s going to get out of here and rejoin Vox Machina and they’re going to _live._

A painfully long time later, he’s made progress towards the hills. By now fatigue is set in, his feet getting heavier and heavier. His mouth is tacky with lack of moisture. There’s no water here, Grog realizes. The clouds above him are dark and rumbling, threatening rain, but none actually falls.

If he can get to the hills there might be water there. Grog grits his teeth and keeps jogging. Eventually the ground underfoot turns from powdery ash and gravel into larger pebbles and flakes of shale, the dark rocky hills now looming above him. Soon he’s climbing instead of running, making his way up a scree of loose rocks. Probably shouldn’t get too high, stick to cover, he thinks, and hugs the side of a rocky overhang.

Something snaps under his foot, a tiny crunch that echoes off the rocks. Grog looks down and sees he’s stepped on a plant, something small and dry and spiky, brownish-gray. Probably dead. But if there’s a plant, there has to be water somewhere.

Gloomstalkers have to eat and drink too. There’s _got_ to be water around here, unless they just eat rocks or something. Do they eat rocks? Grog doesn’t know. Maybe Keyleth would, or Vex.

Except last he saw Vex, she was _dead._ Unthinking Grog punches out at the rock beside him, and too late remembers he doesn’t have his Knuckles. Pain smashes through his hand and up his wrist.

“Motherfucking _shit!_ ” Grog cradles his bleeding hand, growling under his breath. And there’s no one to heal it, either. Following a natural path among two hunks of rock, he heads deeper into the hills, looking for more plants.

At least his intuition leads him right. As he winds his way farther into the hills, dark cliffs now rising above his head, more plant life begins to appear. The occasional stunted, twiggy shrub. Little tufts of thin dry grass. But still no animals, and no breeze stirs the stagnant air.

It suddenly occurs to Grog that he shouldn’t leave the crater of Thar Amphala behind, because where else will anyone know to look for him? Spinning on his heel, he heads back down the little ravine he’s in. But when he gets to a fork, he can’t remember if he came up the right or the left path. Alarm bells ring in his head and he runs down the right one in a dull panic, mouth as dry as dust. After only a few strides the path turns sharply, heading back into the hills. Running back Grog takes the left fork, but not long after that one divides too, and one path turns into a dead end and another he’s sure he was never in and after too much time he has to admit, he’s lost.

Cursing, Grog staggers to a halt, breath scraping over his dry throat, his heart pounding in dull panic. He sinks to his haunches in the shelter of a massive boulder, its face cracked and black and crumbling. He doesn’t know what to do, or how to fix this, or where he should be going –

 _Hey, don’t think_ , he can hear Vax saying. _You’re no good at thinking. Leave that to us._

Closing his eyes, Grog exhales deeply. He has to trust in his friends. They’ll do everything they can to get him back, and if they can’t – well. Then they can’t.

His only job is to survive.

\--

Night falls, cold and bitter as death. Even for Grog the chill of the air is uncomfortable, like all life has been leached from the air. There are no stars, no moon, only occasional sickly flashes in the clouds when thunder rolls. It is the brief light from these that shows Grog the rock face slick with moisture.

Running over, Grog swipes a hand through the liquid and licks his fingers. It’s water. Unpleasant and metallic, but water. Grog presses his face to the rock and sucks up what water he can, throat aching. But it’s barely a trickle, not nearly enough.

There must be a source. Grog scrambles up the cliff face, hands and feet finding purchase in the rough folds and cracks. His injured shoulder and knuckles and sore muscles burn. Hauling himself to the top, Grog searches on hands and knees for the stream, groping in the dark.

His hand plunges into icy water. Grog pulls himself forward and sticks his whole head into the spring. It’s so cold it makes his skull ache but he gulps water until he has to come up for air, snorting and spluttering. The metal tang is even stronger but Grog doesn’t stop drinking until his stomach is distended. With his belly full of water the hunger pangs are dulled, but that won’t be for long.

Grog flops over onto his back, staring up at the empty sky. Another sullen glow briefly lights up the clouds, distant black wings silhouetted against it. A second later thunder rumbles overhead.

The last thing he wants is to wake up with a gloomstalker eating his face. Grog clambers to his feet to find shelter for the night, though he doesn’t plan to sleep any time soon.

\--

He’s not so good at counting, but night definitely seems longer than it should be. Stiff and sore, Grog crawls out from the crevice he tucked himself into as gray light creeps its way across the land. His stomach growls loud and insistent. All he can think about is _hunger._

Near the spring more plants grow, limp strands of grass and gray lichen. Grog picks grass in desperation and munches but it tastes like ash and does nothing to fill his stomach. Only a few tufts grow and he rips them out of the ground, swallows them down. Bugs, maybe there’s bugs or something. But scrabbling among the rocks gets him nothing.

\--

With the amount of sticky goop on the cave walls Grog is sure there’s something nasty inside. He’s right. A few steps in and with a nasty skittering sound a giant centipede-looking thing lunges at him.

Grog gets an arm up in time to block his face and its pincers sink into him, venom burning. It _hurts_ , more than Grog’s used to, and he roars and tries to shake it off. But the damn thing hangs on. Grog grabs a fist-sized rock off the ground and brings it down on the centipede’s head, again and again until it caves in with a nasty _crunch._ Grimacing, Grog pulls its jaws out of his arm and the big segmented body collapses to the cave floor. His stomach aches with hunger and Grog eyes the centipede speculatively.

\--

It’s funny, the things he used to do all the time with the Herd of Storms that he left behind for Vox Machina. Starting fires with sticks and rocks instead of spells. Scavenging for food. Nursing wounds instead of being healed.

I’ve gotten soft, he thinks, hunched over a tiny blaze made from every shrub he could find. Gotten too used to living good.

\--

He thinks it’s been a month, maybe. Both the days and nights are long and gray here. Grog crouches on a rocky outcropping, gnawing idly on a centipede leg, when he sees it. A humanoid figure tiny and dark on the endless gray plain in front of him.

For a second Grog doesn’t care, and then it clicks, that’s _someone_ , what if they’re here for him – “HEY!” shouts Grog, standing up and throwing away the leg. “HEY, YOU!”

He scrambles down the cliff, losing sight of the figure among the rocky maze. When he emerges back onto the plain the person is much closer. Looks like a man, walking forward slowly. “Hey!” bellows Grog again, waving his arms and running forward. The man stops.

Grog doesn’t recognize him. He looks tired, dark-haired with a scruffy beard, clothes old and tattered. As Grog approaches he watches dully. “Hi,” pants Grog, running up to him. “Sorry, it’s just been a _really_ long time since I’ve seen anyone…”

The man blinks at Grog. The creases of his face are dirty, his lips chapped, cheeks hollow. He doesn’t speak.

“What’s your name?” Grog asks.

Opening and closing his mouth a couple times, the man finally says, “I don’t remember.”

The back of Grog’s neck prickles uneasily. “Where are you from?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Okay…” Grog adjusts his makeshift pack made of centipede plates and grass rope. “How long’ve you been here?”

The man’s gaze shifts to the middle horizon. “I don’t know.”

Grog eyes him. Might be nice to have company. “Want to roll with me for a bit?”

A brief light flickers in the man’s eyes. “Sure,” he says, shrugging. He falls into step beside Grog as they trudge back towards the hills.

“You _sure_ you don’t got a name?”

The man walks slow and stiff, like old machinery. “Maybe once. I don’t remember.”

“Well, I’ve got to call you _something._ ” Grog narrows his eyes. “How about… Dave.”

No response. All right. Dave it is, then.

\--

Dave has a pack of his own, with all sorts of dangly bits and charms hanging off of it. He sits next to the little fire in Grog’s cave, staring into the flames. “Hey,” says Grog, who is tired of eating mostly-raw centipede and cave crickets. “You got any grub?”

Frowning, Dave sticks his hands in his pockets, roots around for a bit. “No.”

“Damn.” Grog sighs, scratching the back of his neck. “How do you feel about centipede?”

\--

When he wakes up the next morning Dave has gone. Grog is disappointed; weird and quiet as Dave was, he’s gotten tired of talking to himself.

\--

The gloomstalker’s wing is broken but it refuses to give up. It screams at Grog, yellow-green eyes burning, and he roars right back. It lunges at him but misses. Wrapping his arms around its neck Grog wrestles it to the ground, its shadow wings flapping furiously.

Grunting, Grog hangs on until its struggles weaken. “You gonna behave or what?” he growls at it. It hisses and writhes feebly.

He ties its jaw shut with leather from previous kills, knots another length around its neck. With a booted foot he puts pressure on its broken wing and the gloomstalker shrills furiously. “ _Stay._ ”

\--

It never rains. There are no seasons.

\--

Pain, blinding. Grog clutches a hand to his ruined eye. Blood is warm under his fingers. The giant worm swings a spiked tail at him and Grog ducks. Gloomy sinks its claws into the thing’s neck and tears at it. Stinking blood spatters everywhere.

\--

He used to dream about things that weren’t black rocks and gray dirt and an endless cloudy sky. Days are long. Nights are longer. Every rock is different and also the same. He doesn’t know how old the bones littering his cave floor are.

He falls asleep at night leaning against Gloomy’s leathery scarred chest. Should be warm. It’s not. The thing never really falls all the way asleep.

\--

Crater stays empty. Grog comes back sometimes but can’t remember why. 

He can’t remember the smell of grass. Or the taste of ale. He had friends, but he doesn’t know their names.

\--

Man in front of him. Not so ragged, has color in his cheeks. Grog dismounts from Gloomy with a grin. “Hi,” he rasps. Been a long time since he talked.

Looking afraid, the man steps backwards. “Hi?” he squeaks.

He doesn’t have a pack. But he has a sword. Nice one. Grog reaches out and takes it out of his hand. “Like this,” he grunts.

The man goes pale. “Don’t hurt me,” he begs.

No armor. Soft. Grog swings.

Been a long time since he had red meat.

\--

Doesn’t matter where he goes. Everything looks the same. On Gloomy’s back he sees plains of ash below him. Chunks of dark rock stick out.

Something catches his eye. Movement. Grog points Gloomy that way.

They land. Smells like dust. Rocks in a circle, some standing, some fallen. Don’t look natural. One has dark stains splashed on it. Grog licks. Tastes like rock and iron.

Something in the middle of the circle. Strange. Ripple in the air. Can’t look at it directly. Just out the corner of his eye.

Grog growls, swings his sword through it. Nothing. Sticks his face in it. Nothing.

Fucking stupid. Nothing here.

Might be something interesting under one of the rocks. Grog puts his shoulder to a fallen one, pushes. Just more dust.

Something moves again.

Grog whips around. Doesn’t see anything. Gloomy’s not happy, keeps hissing. Grog stares hard at the middle of the circle.

Glowing symbols. Green. He’d forgotten green –

Light flashes and he’s somewhere different.

Everything _stinks._ Air is warm and damp and smells of plants. Smells of shit. Somewhere dim and enclosed. Something moves and he swings the sword. But he’s frozen, arm in the air. Can’t move. A growl rumbles in his chest.

“Grog! Grog, it’s me!” Woman standing in front of him. Mess of red-brown hair. Charcoal smeared on her face and hands. Wearing mossy leather and rags. Holding a staff.

Memory flickers, deep in his brain. He knows that voice.

“Keyleth?”


	2. subterranean

Keyleth stands half-crouched, eyes burning. She looks starved. Smells sharp like fermented moss. “I’m going to let you go,” she says, approaching slowly, hands held up. “Don’t hurt me.”

Grog can move again. Lets his arm lower. Keyleth reaches up to his face. Instinctively he flinches.

“It’s all right,” Keyleth whispers hoarsely. Touches two fingers to his cheek.

Warmth like he hasn’t felt in so long. Blooms from her touch, spreads through him. Burns through his mind like good booze, waking him up, lifting him out.

“Hooooly _shit,_ ” says Grog. “Keyleth?”

“Grog,” she says, watching him warily. Bones are braided into her tangled hair, little trinkets hang off her antlers, and her eyes shine green and sharp from behind a smear of charcoal. “Hi.”

They’re in some sort of room, dark and damp, probably under a tree because there are giant roots coming down all along the ceiling and through the walls. Little lights like fireflies dance along the walls, moss and vines hang from the ceiling. There’s a rough bed, some piles of stuff. A large, ragged raven shuffles on its perch, beady eyes fixed on Grog.

It hits Grog, the depths from which he’d surfaced. “How long was I gone?” he asks slowly.

Keyleth leans on her staff, expression strange and twisted. “Three years.”

Something’s wrong. Something’s very, very wrong. This isn’t the Keyleth he left behind, and why’s she hiding out under a tree, and where’s Vax, and… “What _happened?_ ”

But he knows. He knows even before she says it. “Vecna won,” says Keyleth, voice dry and gutted. “Grog. They’re all dead. Vex, Vax, Percy. Scanlan, Pike. They’re all dead.”

“No,” says Grog. “No, no –”

“I saw it happen –”

“NO!”

His shout fills the little room and the raven flaps its wings uneasily, cawing. Keyleth tucks her chin, glaring up at him from under her darkened brow.

“You’re lying,” growls Grog.

She curls her upper lip back, shoulders hunching. “I’m not.”

But she _is,_ because it can’t be true. The searing pain in his chest grows and grows, too big for his body, and it fills his arm and he swings the sword at Keyleth. She blocks it with her staff, green sparks flying, and the raven shrieks in alarm, flapping furiously. “Stop it!” she shouts.

“How did _you_ survive?” Grog roars, raising his arm for another strike, his vision blurring red. Keyleth ducks this one and he hits a tree root, carving a deep notch into it. “What happened to _you –_ ”

Vines wrap up around his legs, his torso, his arms. Grog bellows, struggling, but they hold him fast, more and more curling over his body. Keyleth advances towards him, crouched, one hand held out and her eyes glowing green.

“Liar,” grunts Grog, fighting. The vines continue to cover him, winding over his head, constricting his chest. “They’re – not – dead –”

The vines pull him down to his knees, cover his vision. He can see Keyleth’s knees through a gap. “I’m sorry,” she says, hoarse.

Grief carves his chest open. Grog shouts in raw formless agony, but the sound dies in the vines covering his mouth, and he can’t see, and he can’t breathe, and blackness claims him.

\--

He wakes slowly, head pounding, lying on the mossy floor. Turning his head, Grog sees Keyleth watching him. She’s seated cross-legged on her bed, stroking a large and battered-looking rabbit. The raven is perched on her shoulder, and a gray squirrel scurries up to her knee. The Spire of Conflux is propped up against the wall behind her.

“Was it you?” Grog asks. There’s a bad taste in his mouth. “Did you bring me back?”

She nods warily.

“Why?”

Shrugging, Keyleth slides the rabbit’s ears through her fingers. “I need you.”

Grog sits up, groaning. His body aches. “I was stuck there for years. Years!” Longer than he can count, long enough that he lost his mind, lost his eye, long enough that he’s become starved-thin and covered in scars. “Why didn’t you get me out?”

“I tried!” Keyleth’s fingers tighten on the rabbit and it squeaks in protest. “I tried every day but I couldn’t find you, I didn’t know where you were, until you ran into that weak point in the planes.” Her eyes rake over him. “What happened to you?”

He is not in the mood to answer questions. “How did you survive?” Grog asks, glowering.

She looks away, hiding behind the tangle of her hair.

“ _Keyleth,_ ” growls Grog. He looks around for his sword, but it’s nowhere to be seen. “Why are you still alive?”

Her shoulders come up to her ears, the rabbit hopping out of her lap. Her hands tighten in fists. Grog does not stop glaring at her, and finally Keyleth answers. “I was the only one left,” she says quietly. “I would have died, if I stayed.” She looks back at Grog, tears carving tracks in the grime on her face. “I did what I had to do and got out of there because if there were none of us left then it would _all_ be over –”

“You ran.” Betrayal turns Grog’s voice black.

“I lived,” snarls Keyleth, trembling. “You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”

“For what?” Grog rises to his knees, fists clenched. The red rage that lurks beneath the surface, never deep down, bubbles up around his vision. “What’s the fucking point?”

Keyleth strokes the raven on her shoulder, gaze hooded. “Hope,” she says quietly.

\--

To leave the room they climb up a vine ladder, up through the tree. The stench of rotting plant matter only gets stronger, and Grog steps out in bog up to his calves. Trees rise up out of the duckweed and mud, dripping moss. Their trunks are rough and gray-brown. “Where are we?” asks Grog.

“Near Stilben.” Keyleth squats on a large tree root, using her staff as a prop in the mud. “The K’Tawl swamp.”

Grog goes cold in his gut. “Where we first met.”

Keyleth looks up at him, deep and searching. “Yeah.”

Sniffing up at the sky, Grog asks, “Can you fix my eye?”

“Come here,” says Keyleth, frowning.

Grog sloshes over, mud oozing up around his feet. He has to bend for Keyleth to reach his face. Her fingers brush over his skin, turn his jaw to the side. “I can’t fix this,” she says at last, quiet and regretful.

“Are you sure?” Grog asks.

Keyleth nods.

Pike could fix it, Grog thinks. And it’s the thought of her, her gentle, smiling face, her warmth and her strength and _those don’t exist anymore,_ Vecna snuffed her out and the best thing in the world is gone. It cracks Grog’s heart, splits him in two from the inside out, and he crumples, hanging onto the tree root to keep himself from sinking into the muck. Hoarse sobs wrench out of him, scraping his throat. He doesn’t care that Keyleth sees.

Hesitant like a moth, her fingers touch the top of his head. Grog shakes and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” whispers Keyleth.

Grog blinks tears out of his good eye, the slimy bark of the tree inches from his face. His nose is full of the smell of rot. His heart aches.

\--

That evening Grog gorges himself on mushroom stew and roasted fish. That night he pukes it all back up.

When he climbs back down the ladder, Keyleth is awake, sitting up in her bed. Her eyes gleam like a cat’s. “Bad dreams?” she asks.

“Too much food,” grunts Grog. His mouth tastes of bile and he wishes he had some ale to wash it out. “Not used to it.”

“Oh.” Her eyes follow him as he crosses the room to the pile of leaves and moss he’s nesting in. “You want some water?”

“Yeah.”

Leather rustles as Keyleth crawls towards him. Under the tree the air is so warm and damp and still it’s heavy. “Hold your hands out,” she says in a hoarse whisper.

Grog narrows his eye at her. He’s heard this trick before. “Why?”

Tilting her head, Keyleth flashes him a familiar, exasperated look that makes Grog’s ribcage draw tight. “Hold out your hands, Grog.”

He obeys.

Cupping her hands over his, Keyleth draws her fingers back and cool water fills his palms. Grog fills his mouth, rinses, spits to the side. Holds out his hands again, and Keyleth conjures more water.

Beard dripping, Grog swallows and raises his head. “Have you been on your own this whole time?” he asks.

Keyleth nods, watching a bead of water run down her wrist. “Mostly, yeah.”

“Living here?”

“I came here about a year ago,” says Keyleth. “Before that I was wandering, laying low. Didn’t want to stay in one place for too long.” Her arms are bare, and scars and crude tattoos mark her skin. “You were in the Shadowfell?”

“Yeah.”

She settles herself cross-legged, tucking her feet underneath her. “What was it like?”

Grog describes as best he can. He doesn’t know if he has the right words for the gray-black bleakness of it all, isn’t even sure he remembers everything. Keyleth listens in silence. “The bag of holding’s gone?” she asks, when he’s done.

“Yeah, I drew the card, and it just poofed, vanished. Everything did.”

Keyleth frowns down at his bare hands. “They have to be somewhere, magical items don’t just _disappear._ Especially not powerful artifacts like the Vestiges.”

As much as he wants his Knuckles back, Grog is a realist. “They could be literally anywhere.”

“They have to be in the Shadowfell…” says Keyleth distantly.  “I don’t think they could leave the plane.”

“Okay, but have you been to the shadow plane, because it’s fucking huge –”

“Do you want your Titanstone Knuckles or not, Grog?” she snaps.

Grog folds his arms over his chest. “Yes.” If they go back to the Shadowfell they can get Gloomy back too.

Sudden and sharp, Keyleth pulls back from him, back towards her bed. “Go to sleep, Grog,” she murmurs, barely louder than the singing frogs outside. “We’ll leave in the morning.”

\--

Keyleth leaves her room in the morning slow and cautious like a wild animal. Sticks her head out first, sniffs the air. Looks around for a long moment to see if anything’s nearby. Tests the waters in front of her with her staff. Finally when she’s satisfied it’s safe she beckons Grog forward.

He steps out into the muggy swamp air, swats at mosquitoes. The frogs are silent now. Instead insects hum steadily. Gray clouds cover the sky.

“What happened to Emon?” Grog asks.

Shrugging, still crouched on her haunches, Keyleth says, “It’s a mess, but it’s still there. Vecna went for Vasselheim first.”

“Oh.” Grog frowns, trying to connect the dots. “What’s he doing there?”

Keyleth has a thousand-yard stare. “He razed it to the ground,” she says. “And put Thar Amphala in its place instead.”

The bottom drops out of Grog’s stomach. Dreading the answer, he asks, “What about Whitestone?”

Her knuckles on the staff turn white. “A month after Vecna arrived, we put together a team. Allura, Kima, Gilmore, Tary, Zara, Kash… everyone we could think of. Everyone who was left. One ultimate effort to stop Vecna.” She swallows hard. “It was a massacre. No one survived.”

No. Not Kima. Not Gilmore. “You did,” Grog manages.

Keyleth doesn’t flinch at the simmering anger in his voice. “Vecna left me broken,” she says, still staring off into space. “It was months before I could cast a spell. I even lost my beast shape for a while.” She flashes a brittle look at Grog. “I couldn’t have fought even if I wanted to.”

He narrows his eye at her. “Did you want to?”

Standing, Keyleth straightens her shoulders, shakes swamp water off her staff. “Come on,” she says, and walks back along the roots towards him. “Let’s go.”

The only weapon he has now is a bone dagger. “Can I have my sword back?”

“I threw it into the swamp.” Keyleth touches a hand to his shoulder and before Grog can blink green light surrounds them. Wind rushes around them, roaring, disorienting, and then he’s back in the gray and the black and the cold.

Grog shivers instinctively, mouth already feeling drier. He and Keyleth stand in the middle of the stone circle, dust scattering around their feet. “Okay,” says Keyleth, with a deep breath. “So from here –”

A gloomstalker shrieks, cutting her off. Keyleth whips her staff around and shoots a lightning bolt at it, her teeth pulled back in a snarl.

“Gloomy!” Grog shouts, running forwards. Singed but screaming, Gloomy lunges for Keyleth and Grog grabs him by the neck, tackles him to the ground. “Stop! Easy, all right? _Stay._ ”

Gloomy snarls and writhes under him. “Behave,” growls Grog. Gradually, Gloomy stills and quiets, one yellow-green eye fixed balefully on Grog.

“Okay,” pants Keyleth, staff held out warily towards Gloomy. “So you two know each other, then?”

Cautiously, Grog takes his weight off Gloomy. It hisses and pushes itself up on its wings, glaring at Keyleth. “She’s a friend, okay?” says Grog. “Frieeeeend.”

Keyleth watches him like he’s crazy. “I’m just gonna scry for the Knuckles now,” she says slowly, drawing backwards and sinking to the ground. She lays her staff on the ground and closes her eyes, and when she opens them they’re blank white.

Grog waits impatiently. Beside him Gloomy shuffles its wings restlessly, clicks its beak together.

With a gasp and a blink Keyleth returns to herself. “Huh,” she says, drawing her staff back towards her.

“What?” Grog asks. “Did you find it?”

“Yeah, yeah, I did…” She still sounds distant, a frown on her face. “Good news is, it’s on this plane somewhere.”

“Bad news is, you can’t find it,” Grog supplies tonelessly.

Keyleth scrapes the bottom of her staff along the dry ground. “Well,” she says, voice high-pitched and cracking, “that depends. Do you know how many caves there are around here?”

“Oh, yeah, there’s loads up there.” Grog points up at the mountains. “What kind of cave?”

“Big and dark. There was an island, in the middle of a lake, with all this stuff on it. Just piles of bones and weapons and junk, and the Knuckles were in it. And it looked like glow-worms were hanging from the ceiling.” She shoots a sideways glance at Grog. “Know anywhere like that?”

Scratching his beard, Grog thinks. He’d remember if he’d found that much water at once. “No,” he says, “but can’t you talk to the ground and ask it ‘Hey, where is there a shit-ton of water?’”

“Only if it’s nearby,” murmurs Keyleth. Crouching, she picks up dust with her fingers, licks cautiously. Her nose wrinkles in distaste.

Grog says, “Well, there is fuckall water out here. Your best bet’s probably in the mountains.” Tugging on Gloomy’s harness, he pulls the gloomstalker closer, and it snaps at him. “Fancy a ride?”

She eyes Gloomy with suspicion. “I’ll fly, thanks,” and she turns into a swirl of mist.

\--

They spend the day searching through the mountains, Keyleth pausing every so often to press her palms to the rocks and talk to nature, looking constipated. By the time night falls Grog is tired and hungry and seriously pissed off. “Nothing?” he demands, as Keyleth pulls her hand away from the boulder, her face pinched and white. “Again?”

Keyleth glares at him. “I’m trying, okay?”

“Not hard enough,” Grog mutters.

Stinging pain hits the back of his calves. Grog yelps and whips around. Keyleth has her staff upraised. “Don’t,” she hisses, eyes snapping. Grog rumbles back at her, hackles raised. Behind him Gloomy spreads its wings in a threat display. “Do you want my help or not?” Keyleth demands.

“I don’t need your help,” Grog growls. “I was fine for years on my own!”

Keyleth bristles, swipes a hand through the air. Green light scatters through the air and for a second Grog thinks she’s going to fuck off back to the swamp. But the light sputters out and Keyleth staggers, clinging to her staff for support. She pants for air.

Despite himself Grog reaches out to steady her. “Don’t touch me,” mutters Keyleth, and sparks snap off her skin when Grog makes contact. He flinches from surprise, not pain.

“Do you want to keep going?” he asks.

Slumping, Keyleth shakes her head. “I’m tapped out. I need to rest.”

They’re in an area Grog knows reasonably well. He leads their little group over to a ravine so tight Gloomy can barely get in, parks them under the shelter of an overhang. “It’ll get cold,” he warns, hunkering down. “Wanna start a fire?”

Keyleth’s eyes gleam and she turns into a big cat. Not Minxi, but cougar-like, red-brown and with tufted ears. Curling up around herself, she tucks her nose into her oversized paws.

All right, thinks Grog, and leans back against Gloomy’s bony chest. He’ll keep watch.

\--

It takes them another morning of fruitless searching. But as the thunder rolls overhead, Keyleth presses her hand to the rock yet again, and when she draws back it’s with a soft gasp. “I found it,” she whispers.

Adrenaline leaps to life in Grog. “Where?” he demands, rushing up alongside her. Too fast maybe, because she flinches away from him, staff held ready in defense.

“Below here,” she says, tapping her staff on the ground. “Far below. We have to go into the earth.”

This time they’re in a region unfamiliar to Grog. “Can you do your earth tunnel thing?”

Keyleth sinks cross-legged to the ground, sliding her hands into a rift in the ground. Static energy crackles around her. The earth groans, cracking apart. Gloomy hisses and flies up to perch on a cliff, away from the shaking.

Shuddering, Keyleth pushes forward, her shoulderblades like knives. The split in the ground widens, threatening to swallow her. Grog steps up beside her. Keyleth slinks forward into the yawning gap, black dirt staining her hands and feet. Wishing he had a better weapon than a knife, Grog follows after her.

The earth parts a few steps in front of Keyleth as she walks forward, rocks cracking and shifting. A faint light drifts off her hands. “How far is it?” asks Grog.

Keyleth paces forward steadily. “Far.”

They keep walking. Eventually the rocks close behind them, and Grog is left in the almost-dark with nothing but his own footfalls and the whisper of Keyleth’s passing.

After what seems like hours, the rocks stop cracking and shifting, and Grog steps into open space beside Keyleth. The air is still and stagnant, ice cold. “Hello!” shouts Grog, testing the echo. Sounds like a small cave. Lips parted, Keyleth exhales fire into the air, light swirling around the rocky cavern for a few moments. Grog stares at her in awe. “Didn’t know you could do that.”

The rocky floor is so up-and-down that Keyleth climbs forward instead of walking, her staff slung across her back. Grog follows, the sparks dancing around her like fireflies. Across the cave is a black rift, barely large enough for Grog to fit through. He clambers in after Keyleth.

His muscles cramp, rock scraping his shoulders and knees. His stomach is tight with hunger. The blackness weighs down on his mind. The Shadowfell wants him back. He could stay, Grog thinks, squeezing himself through a tight spot. To hell with Vecna. There’s nothing left for him anyway. He could stay and lose himself to the black and gray forever.

Keyleth pauses and looks back at him, an orange gleam in her eyes. She nods at him once before crawling forward once more. Taking a deep breath, Grog pushes himself forward, nails scraping on the rough stone.

Gradually, the passage widens. At last he can stand, clambering from rock to rock. Keyleth perches on a boulder, peering into the darkness in front of her. “I think we’re close,” she whispers, voice carrying in the still air.

Grog climbs up beside her. His eye must be tricking him after so long in the dark, because he keeps seeing little blue points of light appear and disappear. He rubs his eye hard, but the lights are still there. “Do you see that?”

Keyleth nods and slips off the rock. A slope of crumbling stone leads down, into the cavern, and Grog half-walks, half-slides along it. In the dark his feet plunge into frigid water and he jumps back with a clattering of rocks.

The water ripples, the little blue lights reflected in it dancing. Grog looks up at the ceiling and sees the lights scattered across it like stars, the only stars he’s ever seen in the Shadowfell. Crouching, he scoops up water and brings it to his lips. It tastes _foul_. Grog sputters and spits it out.

Keyleth chuckles quietly beside him. She trails one bony hand through the water, dredges up a handful of black mud. “The island’s that way,” she says, gesturing to the depths of the lake.

Picturing swimming through this icy black water, Grog sighs. “Is it even worth it?”

“Don’t you want the Titanstone Knuckles?” Keyleth asks, giving him a strange look.

Grog mutters, “Not like they’ll help me kill Vecna.”

The silence of the cavern is absolute, not even broken by dripping water. Keyleth looks down at her hands. “Well, we’re already here,” she murmurs eventually, and slides into the lake, her form becoming sleek and scaly.

Maybe if she’s a shark Grog can ride her. But Keyleth disappears beneath the surface and does not reappear. Several moments later, a ripple stirs the lake, far away from Grog, and he catches a brief glimpse of her tail.

There’s nothing for it. Grog wades into the water, mud squelching beneath his boots. The frigid water creeps up his thighs, so cold it bites, and as it hits his crotch his junk practically retreats back into him. Grimacing, Grog pushes forward, the rags of his loincloth floating up around him. The water rises steadily, past his stomach, past his chest, up to his neck. His feet leave the bottom and Grog doggy-paddles forward, spitting out the water that splashes into his mouth.

He’s completely lost Keyleth at this point. Grog swims in the direction she headed. Soon he can no longer see the shore. He is surrounded by blackness, broken only by the little blue lights. The only sound is the ripple of water. His hands and feet grow numb.

Something seizes his ankle and pulls him down.

Grog gulps air and is dragged under, plunged into inky blackness, and he thrashes furiously. The thing wrapped around his leg is clinging and soft and he tries to kick it off. His foot connects with something squishy and he strikes at it again and again. His lungs burn, bubbles escaping his lips. The thing that has him is strong, still pulling him downwards, and Grog fumbles for the knife at his belt.

He writhes and slashes down at where he thinks it is. One slice misses, but another connects, and Grog stabs desperately. A low rumbling shriek hits his ears, distorted by water, and abruptly the thing lets go of his foot.

Air. He needs air. Grog can’t see and he heads towards what he thinks is up. But he’s not moving, he keeps swimming but doesn’t break the surface, his chest is about to burst. All he sees is black. He can’t breathe. His throat is on fire. Grog lets himself drift.

Grog is yanked sharply to the side by his leather baldric. He fights it on instinct, but he has no strength and the force is relentless. His thoughts are fuzzy.

He breaks the surface, air stinging on his face. Gasping for breath, Grog spins in the water, looking around frantically, his splashing loud and echoing.

Keyleth comes up beside him, only her eyes and the top of her head visible. Her pupils are wide, reflecting the blue lights. Panting, treading water, Grog stares at her, debating what to say. “I had it handled,” he manages at last.

With a quiet ripple Keyleth sinks back under, only a little disturbance in the water showing which way she swims. Grog follows her. He’s lost his knife in the struggle.

They keep swimming. Grog’s numb hands and feet tingle, then go numb again. He’s starting to think nothing else exists beyond this cave, beyond silence and black water, when he sees something in the distance. More of those blue lights, concentrated, and a dark mound silhouetted against them.

With renewed determination he paddles towards it. As he gets closer the lights become glowing strings dripping from the ceiling. The mound is an island, rocky, not very large. Grog’s legs and arms tremble with effort but he refuses to give up, and finally his feet touch ground.

Dripping, Grog climbs up onto the island, his legs shaking under him. Keyleth is already there, half-elf again and soaking wet. “Is this it?” he asks.

Keyleth nods.

Grog shakes himself like a dog, flinging water off himself. He appraises the pile in front of him. The mound of clutter stretches up, taller than he is, rocks poking through occasionally. In the light from Keyleth’s sparks metal glimmers occasionally, but most of it looks like junk. Bones, bits of pottery, leather belts. Anything and everything thrown together.

Something shiny catches his eye and Grog picks it up. It’s a brooch, tarnished but delicately made, set with blue stones. Not really his style. Grog tosses it back onto the pile.

“I think the Knuckles are at the top,” says Keyleth.

Grog attempts to climb up the mound, but loose items scatter under his feet and it’s difficult to make headway. Keyleth shrinks into a mouse and scampers up, barely visible. Grunting with effort, Grog finds solid footing.

As he scrambles up he keeps an eye out for weapons. Only thing that looks good is a rusty pike. He grabs it, keeps going. This junk is anything and everything, weapons and little boxes and jewelry and bones and scraps of clothing, everything. When he gets to the top there are the Knuckles, looking grimy, mouse-Keyleth sitting on top of them and cleaning her whiskers.

Grog is reaching out to take them when clutter shifts behind him. Pike in hand, Grog whips around. A figure rises out of the pile, carrying a giant pack on its back like a turtle. “Uh,” says Grog. “Hi.”

The figure climbs forward, peering up at him through cloudy white-blue eyes. “Who are you?” she asks, her face wrinkled and pinched. She might be an elf, with ears like hers. It’s hard to tell in the dark.

“Nobody, just picking these up,” says Grog, grabbing the Knuckles. Keyleth dashes up his arm. “Thank you, I’ll just be going now –”

The little old lady touches a finger to his chest and Grog’s muscles stiffen, the breath sucked out of his lungs, the pike clattering to the floor. “I asked,” she croaks, “who you _are._ ”

“Grog,” he manages. “Grog Strongjaw the Destroyer.” A memory twists his heart. “Grand Poobah De Doink of All This and That.”

She sniffs. “Don’t know you.”

Grog flexes, trying to fight the hold. A familiar anger burns in the pit of his stomach. “Let me go,” he growls.

She squints up at him, lips pressed together, ears pulling back. “I said, who are –” Her eyes fall on the Knuckles and widen in anger. “ _Thief!_ ” she shrieks, and swells, arms and legs getting longer, white sparks jumping off her skin.

Oh shit. Grunting, Grog tries again to break free, move his arms, do _anything._ Keyleth launches herself at the old woman, turning back into half-elf. The impact knocks them down the hill, scattering junk everywhere.

Suddenly Keyleth goes flying, lands hard. Panting, she gets to her feet and swipes her staff through the air. A fireball shoots out of her staff and hits the old woman.

The firelight is blinding, orange and red searing Grog’s vision. When the flames swirl out he can barely see, but he can _move._ Grog shoves his hands in the Knuckles and it feels like greeting an old friend.

The old woman is horrible now, tall and spider-limbed and her face twisted. Grog bellows at her and she scuttles around to face him on her hands and feet, elbows and knees pointing out. “ _Thief,”_ she hisses, all the little trinkets hanging off her clattering together, smoke rising off her. “ _Give it back!_ ”

“Nah,” says Grog, and decks her in the face.

It crunches satisfyingly and he’s pretty sure teeth go flying. The old woman screams at him, bloody spittle hitting him in the face. Her hand shoots out uncannily fast and before Grog can react her fingers wrap around his throat and squeeze.

More fire streaks out of Keyleth’s hands. It blasts into the old woman and she staggers, but her grip doesn’t relent. Grog claws at her arm, trying to pry her off.

She squeezes tighter. Grog chokes, his feet leaving the floor.

Fingers of earth rise up, wrapping around the old woman. Through his blurring vision Grog sees Keyleth, standing with her hands outstretched and quivering. Her face contorts with effort and she clenches her fists. The dirt crumples in, dragging the old woman to the floor. With a final burst of strength Grog drives his fist into her elbow. It makes a nasty popping sound and she howls, dropping Grog.

Gasping, Grog pushes himself up to his hands and knees. The old woman writhes, the dirt slowly pulling her under, sweat running down Keyleth’s face.

A thunderwave bursts out of the old woman, fling dirt and junk and Grog backwards. His head smacks into the ground and he sees stars. Shaking his head to clear it, he sits up.

The scene in front of him is strangely still. Old Spider Lady stalks towards Keyleth, who doesn’t move. Instead Keyleth lies on the ground, her back arched, and a strained cry comes out of her. The old woman advances, muttering under her breath. Keyleth groans, her skin turning gray and dry –

Grog gets to his feet. He could leave, he thinks suddenly, while she’s distracted. Run with the Knuckles and get out of here. Go back to his simple Shadowfell life.

And then he imagines how disappointed Pike would be if she knew.

Seizing a rock from the ground, Grog chucks it as hard as he possibly can at the old lady. It hits her in the side of her head and smashes her eye in. She screams, legs buckling, and Grog charges at her full-tilt.

He crashes into her and they go tumbling down the side of the island. Grog uses his momentum to slam her into the ground before they fall into the lake, and her horrible long hands and feet cling to him, and he grabs her hair and forces her head underwater.

She thrashes, limbs flailing everywhere. Grog drives all his weight into her, hangs on for dear life. Sparks fly off her skin, burning him, but he ignores the pain. Her face under the surface is warped with anger, and she bares her teeth and a huge bubble rises up and that’s when Grog knows it’ll be over soon. He hangs on with renewed strength as her death struggles intensify. Her hands fumble for his throat, nails scraping, and her feet bang into his back and head. Grog bellows, tightens his grip, pushes her deeper under. Gradually her struggles weaken, and then with a massive shudder she goes limp, limbs collapsing.

Breathing hard, Grog gets to his feet. He kicks her into the water but she doesn’t sink or drift away, just floats there.

“Good job,” says Keyleth hoarsely from behind him.

Grog turns around. She stands using her staff as a support, clutching her chest. There’s still a gray tinge to her skin. “You all right?” he asks.

She shrugs. “I had it handled.” There’s a tiny hint of a smile on her face.

\--

Keyleth’s out of spell juice so they spend the night there, on that little island. Once again Keyleth is a wildcat, but this time she lets Grog sleep next to her, close enough that her warm fur brushes him. There’s no morning underground, but after a while they wake, and swim back, and tunnel back up to the surface.

Gloomy isn’t visible, but Grog whistles for him, and is rewarded with the flapping of wings and a hoarse shriek as it lands in front of him. “I didn’t know you could tame these,” says Keyleth, eyes narrowed.

Grog shrugs.

“You’re not bringing it back with us, are you?”

“Yeah, I am,” says Grog, indignant. “He’s my buddy. I’m not just _leaving_ him.”

Keyleth draws herself up, bristling. “I am not taking this hell-creature back to my swamp!”

“Why not?” demands Grog.

Exasperated, Keyleth flings a hand out. “What if it attacks us, or eats all the animals, or we unleash it into the world, or –”

Grog folds his arms and proclaims, “I’m not leaving without him.”

Keyleth lets out a long, heavy sigh. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you,” she says at least.

“Yup.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she mutters, and reaches out to touch Grog, who hastily puts a hand on Gloomy’s neck, and takes them out of the Shadowfell.  


	3. feculence

Gloomy doesn’t like the swamp. It shrieks, circling around Keyleth’s tree several times before perching in the branches and shuffling uneasily. “Great,” says Keyleth darkly, glaring up at it. “That’s not suspicious at all.”

“Maybe everyone will just think he’s a really big bird,” offers Grog.

Keyleth gives him a look and slinks into her tree.

Idly bumping his Knuckles together, Grog follows. Keyleth is down in her room, crouching over the rabbit in a corner. She’s got more animals besides that and the squirrel and the raven, turtles and birds and more furry things, and she moves from one to the other. Touches them on the head, pets fur and feathers. Chants healing spells. Feeds them little crumbs and seeds. One gray-brown bird flutters in her hands and she holds it gently but firmly, appraising. “Are you ready to fly?” she asks it softly.

“Do you take care of them?” Grog asks, feeling big and awkward.

Keyleth tosses the bird into the air. It stays up for a few moments before tumbling down. With a gasp Keyleth lunges to catch it, cupping her fingers around the bird. “Guess not,” she says, and returns it to its perch. “Yeah, I do what I can. The swamp is dangerous,” she continues softly, stroking the back of a squirrel. Peering closer, Grog sees it’s missing a leg. “Vecna’s poisoned this entire world.”

Grog squats, leaning his back against the wall. “I mean, the swamp wasn’t exactly friendly the last time we were here.”

“It’s worse now.” Keyleth stands, sighing, and crosses to a leather pouch hanging off the wall. Pulls out a loaf of flat, pale bread. “There’s monsters everywhere, strange things I’ve never seen before. Whole sections of the swamp are black and rotting, and it’s spreading.” She crouches down beside Grog, breaks the loaf in half and hands him a piece.

Munching – the bread is coarse and doesn’t taste like much of anything, but it’s food – Grog thinks. “So now what?” he says. “Kill Vecna?”

Keyleth shudders. “I don’t think we can.”

“Why not?” Grog, emboldened by food in his belly, continues, “Maybe if we train up, get stronger, get some better weapons –”

“Better than the Vestiges of Divergence?”

“…Maybe.”

“Grog, we can’t.” Keyleth rubs her forehead, and her voice shakes with tears. “Not the two of us alone. We couldn’t even kill one of the Briarwoods, let alone Vecna –”

“Wait wait wait, hold up,” says Grog. “The _Briarwoods?_ Both of them?”

Dully, Keyleth says, “They came back. They’re in Emon now. Ruling it.”

Grog stares at her and says through a mouthful of bread, “You couldn’t have said that earlier?”

“You know, I was kind of trying not to think about it,” squeaks Keyleth. She picks at her ragged nails. “Is it weird, that they’re just as scary to me as Vecna is?”

“Kind of, yeah.” Vecna’s a literal god. The Briarwoods are just dicks. “Maybe we should kill them first.”

“We can’t.”

“You keep saying that, how do you know?”

“Because they’re more powerful than ever, and look at us!” Furious tears spring to Keyleth’s eyes. “They’ll kill us in – in seconds!”

Grog stuffs the last of the bread in his mouth. “Maybe we just have to try a different strategy,” he ruminates.

Sighing, Keyleth drops her head into her hands. “There is no different strategy.” The raven caws bleakly in its corner.

\--

Sleep comes to Grog quickly. But his dreams are uneasy, green light and missing hands, and he startles awake in the dark, sweat coating his skin.

Across the room from him Keyleth is curled up on her bed. She twitches and whimpers. In a loud whisper, Grog says, “Keyleth!”

She twitches again, feet jerking, and whines. “Keyleth,” says Grog again, and crawls towards her. Grabbing her shoulder, he shakes her awake.

With a flash of light and an electric shock Grog is knocked flat on his ass, the wind driven out of him. Keyleth crouches in her bed, panting, one hand held at the ready. Then her posture slackens, and she sighs. “Grog?”

“Owwww.”

“I’m sorry.” She slumps back down on her bed, drawing the ragged blanket back over. “Sorry.”

Grog returns to his nest at the other side of the room, and falls back asleep.

\--

“I think we should kill the Briarwoods,” Grog says.

It’s raining today, a steady, sullen downpour. The air is so thick Grog can taste it. It tastes like armpit. Keyleth, uncaring, wades out into the water, short spear in hand. Her rags trail behind her.

Grog repeats, louder, “I said, I think we should kill the Briarwoods.”

“We can’t.” Keyleth is barely audible over the sound of rain.

“Sure we can.” Gloomy, hunched miserable in this strange sky-water, clicks its beak, and Grog scritches its neck. “You, me, and Gloomy.”

Keyleth rolls her eyes. “How could I forget about the gloomstalker?”

“Dunno, he’s pretty unforgettable in my opinion.”

Spear raised, Keyleth stands completely still. Only her eyes move, darting from point to point on the water. Her damp hair hangs heavy down her back, and water drips from the tines of her antlers. With a sudden sharp movement she plunges the spear down, and as she brings it back up a grey fish flaps pierced on the end. Sliding the fish off the spear, Keyleth drops it into a deep basket hanging from her waist, and waits for another.

“Briarwoods,” repeats Grog.

“No.” Keyleth stabs another fish.

“Yes.”

“ _No._ ”

“What else are we gonna do then?” Grog demands. “Live in the swamp forever and eat fish?”

“It’s better than dying horribly.” Keyleth wades out a few paces further.

Grog weighs the options. Live in a tree for years and years and years or die in battle. Knows which one he’d prefer. “Yeah, but wouldn’t you rather go down swinging?”

Turning around, Keyleth looks him in the eyes despairingly. “I’m not like you, Grog,” she says. “I don’t want to die in battle. I don’t want to go out in a blaze of glory. I want –” She stops, her voice getting choked up. “I want to live in peace with my own little garden and my friends and…”

Grog’s heart twists. “Where’s your family?” he asks. “Your father?”

Looking down, Keyleth swirls her spear through the murky water. “After Vecna took over the Ashari retreated to the elemental plans and sealed them off,” she says quietly. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to see them again.”

“And you didn’t go with them?” says Grog.

Rain drips down around Keyleth, collecting in her hair, soaking her clothes, running down her face and arms. “Someone had to stay,” she murmurs.

\--

“Right,” says Grog, sitting down in front of Keyleth. “Here’s the plan.”

Keyleth looks up from the large swamp rat she’s tending to. Its fur is dark and matted with blood, and it squeaks and writhes in her lap. “What plan – Grog, what _is_ that?”

With a flourish he produces the hide, a crude diagram drawn on it with charcoal. “Here’s how we get into Emon,” he says, laying it out in front of Keyleth. “You do your tree teleport spell thing into our keep. Then we go down into the sewers and travel through them to get to the palace. At the palace, we disguise ourselves as servants, and when the Briarwoods are sleeping we cut their heads off.” He points to two stick figures in the center of the diagram, their eyes X’d out and their tongues lolling. He’s very proud of these drawings. They took a long time.

Keyleth sighs. “Grog, that’s not going to work.”

Deflating, Grog demands, “Why not?”

“Because – well, first of all, I don’t think anyone’s going to believe you’re a servant.” Keyleth looks pointedly at his scars and tattoos. “Second –”

“Not true, the Briarwoods had a goliath duke.”

“ _Second,_ you can’t kill Lord Briarwood by beheading him. He’s a vampire, remember?” The rat escapes her hands and runs off to hide under the bed.

“All right, so you dump water on him or blast him with a sunbeam or whatever the hell it is you do to vampires.” Grog folds his arms, staring defiantly down at Keyleth. “I still think it’s a good plan.”

Sighing, Keyleth stretches out on her stomach to drag the rat out from under the bed. “It’s not – going to work – ow!” She retreats, sucking on her finger. “Grog, can you…?”

“Yup,” and he reaches over and lifts the rickety frame with one hand. Keyleth grabs the rat and wrestles it back. When it’s under control she sits up, huffing hair out of her face. She mutters and a green glow flashes from her hands, enveloping the rat. It chitters.

“Look,” says Grog. “It’s the best we’ve got.” He narrows his eyes at Keyleth. “Don’t you want revenge?”

Hollow-eyed, Keyleth stares at him. “I want it so much it burns,” she says. “But I can’t do it.”

Grog considers this. “If you didn’t want to fight, why did you bring me back?”

This time the rat scampers out of Keyleth’s lap and she lets it go. “I couldn’t let you stay there,” she whispers. “You’re the only family I have left.”

“Keyleth.” Leaning forward, Grog puts a hand on her shoulder. “Vox Machina is just us now. We have to keep doing what Vox Machina does. We fuck shit up. Right?” He gives her a little shake. “That’s what we do.”

She draws in a long, shuddering breath. “I already lost everyone,” she says, voice thick with tears. “I can’t lose you too.”

“You’re not gonna lose me.” Grog squeezes her shoulder. “All right?”

Keyleth sniffles. “All right.”

Warmth blossoms in Grog’s chest that he hasn’t felt in years. “Let’s go kick some vampire ass, huh?” And he holds a fist out to Keyleth.

With a watery smile, she fistbumps him. “Yeah.”

\--

Grog steps through a tree and to the outskirts of Emon. The ground is brown and dry, and stretches before him to the crumbling edges of the city. Where Greyskull Keep was is now a blackened mark in the ground. “They must really hate us, huh,” he says.

“I can’t imagine why,” sighs Keyleth, grinding her staff into the dirt.

The breeze carries a hint of rot and death. A lumbering zombie giant, one arm half gone, drags itself along the perimeter of the city. “How many of those?” Grog asks.

“I don’t know.”

“If I had Gloomy,” says Grog, “I could fly over and see…”

Keyleth crouches, touching one hand to the earth. “No, Grog.”

“Why not?”

Closing her eyes, she digs her fingers in, dirt crumbling. Grog leans back in the shade of the tree, willing himself to blend into the gray-brown landscape. “Seriously, though,” he demands, “why not –”

“I’m concentrating,” snaps Keyleth.

Grog grumbles and flexes his fingers in the Knuckles. Keyleth’s probably right, though. There aren’t even any birds in the sky. He’d stick out like a sore thumb. “Can we still tunnel underneath?” he asks.

“I can only tunnel so far.” Keyleth sits back on her heels, her hand full of dirt. She smells it and winces. “I think we can just walk into the city disguised as peasants.”

“Won’t they have guards at the gate, though?”

“Probably, but even if they did…” Keyleth looks up at him. “Grog, I don’t think anyone would recognize us.”

He frowns at her. Underneath the tangled hair and the dirt and the rags and the little trinkets hanging off of her, Keyleth is still Keyleth. “I recognize you,” he says.

She smiles wanly. “If we pose as wandering traders, with some goods we’re trying to sell, they should let us in.”

“Do we have anything to sell?” Grog doesn’t have a pack and Keyleth only carries a small satchel. The giant stops its ambling to raise its blocky head, peer at the land around it. “Ooh, we could be trappers with fur and meat and animals. Can you summon things we can kill?”

“Anything I conjure will disappear when it’s dead. But that’s not a bad idea, Grog,” says Keyleth. She glances over her shoulder at the woods behind them. “Not all the animals are dead. Let’s go hunting.”

\--

A slow trickle of people enters Emon through the south gate. Most look as ragged as Grog and Keyleth, their backs bowed, their faces weathered and dirty, carrying large packs or hauling carts of meager produce. Two nobles ride by, their clothes bright and clean, their horses’ coats glossy. Cutting in front of the line they trot through the gate, not once acknowledging the peasants or the guards.

“Poncy motherfuckers,” mutters Grog. Keyleth jabs a sharp elbow into his side.

They reach the gate. One guard gives them a cursory glance over, seeing the deer carcass flung over Grog’s shoulder, the rabbits slung from Keyleth’s belt. With a jerk of her head she motions them into the city.

Heads down, Keyleth and Grog follow the crowd in. They wind their way further into the city, towards one of the common markets. There are more people here, clustered around the various stalls, bickering over prices. Grog pricks his ears up for any useful snippets of conversation. Everyone seems terse and haggard, little smiling or socializing.

“Fresh meat!” bellows Grog, holding the deer up by the neck, his shout joining the cries of other hawkers. “Buy your fresh meat here!”

He gets a few interested glances. One woman haggles with Keyleth over one of the rabbits, eventually trades over a few copper pieces for it.

A disturbance parts the crowd, people shying away from a man riding in on a bay horse. He’s dressed in fine dark leathers, an impassive look on his face. As he rides through the marketplace, followed by two guards, his eyes fall on Grog and he raises an eyebrow. “You there! Goliath!”

Grog checks behind him to make sure there aren’t any other goliaths he’s talking to. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Come forward.”

The people near Grog hastily pull back from him, leaving him standing alone. Keyleth has melted into the crowd. Hefting the deer higher on his back, Grog walks towards the man. “Where did you get that deer?” the man asks, clipped.

Something in his tone puts Grog on guard. “Really far away,” he says. “Not in the woods outside the city.”

The man snorts. “Lord Shenn would like it for his table,” he says. “Come with me.” He turns his horse, expecting compliance.

Shenn. Grog knows that name, from _somewhere._ He glances back in the crowd for Keyleth but she’s vanished.

“Are you coming or not?” demands the man. One of his guards pokes Grog in the back with the butt of his spear.

 “I’m coming, I’m coming,” mutters Grog, glaring at the guard and trudging forward. Roll with the flow, right?

The man sniffs, his horse clopping loudly on the stones, his guards falling in line behind Grog. He's not happy about the one in his blind spot. “You must be new in town.”

Grog clamps down on a surge of panic. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “Just thought we’d come by and sell some meat.”

“Well,” declares the man. “When you’ve spent some time here, you’ll realize that Lord Shenn’s _attention_ is not lightly turned aside. I am his steward, Sir Deskas Varion. Walk lively!”

Whoever this Lord Shenn is, he must be an asshole. Grog stumps along after the horse as they pass deeper and deeper into the city, towards the Cloudtop District. As they reach the district gate, the guards – better armored and cleaner than the ones at the city gate – hold out their pikes, scrutinizing Grog. “Who is this?” one of them asks.

Grog proclaims, “I am bringing this –” One of Varion’s guards prods him in the back.

“This deer has been procured for Lord Shenn’s table,” says Varion, looking down his nose at the guard. “Let us through.”

“All right, don’t need to be a prick about it,” mutters the gate guard. He and his partner draw back, allowing Varion, Grog, and the two guards to pass through.

Before Thordak, the Cloudtop was posh and clean, fancy carved arches and large mansions and sparkling fountains and gardens. Then Thordak turned it into rubble. Now it’s been partially rebuilt, large houses raised in between piles of stone. The houses look just as fancy, but different, covered in gilt and bright paint, loudly patterned banners draped over their fronts. Grog keeps an eye on them, wondering which one is the Briarwood’s.

“So where do the Briarwoods live?” he asks, very casually.

One of the guards behind him makes a quick, stifled noise. “You mean Their Majesties King Sylas and Queen Delilah,” says Varion, with a scathing look. “Do not speak of them again without permission.”

Shit, thinks Grog, shifting the weight of the deer. They’re king and queen now. Must be in the palace.

They reach a mansion built out of dark red stone, the front line with massive columns. Elaborate carving covers all the balconies and surrounds the windows and doors. As they approach, iron gates opening for them. “Take him ‘round the side,” orders Varion. “Pay him two silver for his trouble.”

Probably after he drops off this deer, the guards will let Grog go. He goes with them. They lead him around the side of the mansion to doors in the back. One is open, and Grog catches a glimpse of kitchen, hears the clanging of pans.

“Here,” says one of the guards roughly, taking the deer from Grog. It thumps to the ground. “Here’s your silver, now go on.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” mutters Grog.

Get out of here, go back and find Keyleth. Grog circles back around the house, aware of the guards watching him. There’s a bit of a lawn and some shrubbery, but they’re struggling. If Scanlan were here he would sneak inside and shit on a bed. Grog’s shoulders sag, his heart heavy.

“Halt!” calls a prissy, snide voice. Grog turns around. Coming out of the mansion is a man, tall, with long blond hair and a red monocle, dressed in fancy leathers and carrying a white cane. “Who are you? What are you doing on my property?”

Pieces click together in Grog’s brain. “ _Oh,_ ” he says. “You’re Spireling Shenn!”

Shenn’s eyes narrow. “That’s _Lord_ Shenn,” he says, nose wrinkled. “How did you even know my old title, anyway?”

Shit. “No idea, I’m just going now, bye,” says Grog hurriedly, wheeling back towards the gate.

“Now wait just a moment.” A magic touch snakes around Grog’s shoulders, rooting him in place. Shenn stalks into his field of view, cane pointed at Grog. “I know you…”

“Well," says Grog loftily, "I am known in Vasselheim as the Champion of the Crucible."

Shenn peers at him through the monocle. He gasps in recognition, snapping his fingers. “Vox Machina!” he says. “I don’t believe it. I thought you all _died_!”

Grog subtly flexes, but the magic doesn’t give. “Vox what?”

“No, you can’t fool me, my goliath friend.” Shenn chuckles. Grog hears clanking and footsteps behind him – more guards. “Where’s the rest of your little band? Or are you the only one left?”

A hawk sounds overhead. Grog looks up to see a red-brown hawk high in the sky. “Just me,” he says.

“Well.” Shenn grins as sharp and unfriendly as a dagger. “Why don’t you come inside, my _friend_ ,” and he claps Grog on the shoulder.

Grog can move again. He’s glad for a familiar face like Shenn, and walks back with him into the house. Inside it’s dim, curtains drawn over windows, the front room stuffed with elaborate furniture and heavy brocade. “You have a lovely house,” says Grog stiffly.

Shenn chuckles. “It used to belong to one of your old pals on the council,” he says, leading Grog through double doors into a study. “Lord Daxio, do you remember him? I believe he died at your hand, actually.”

“Oh yeah.” Grog’s face lights up in reminiscence. “That was a good one.”

“Quite. Please, sit,” and Shenn gestures towards a chair in the study. Grog, feeling nothing but the overwhelming desire to please his new friend, obeys. “Now.” Shenn perches on the desk, crosses one leg over the other, expression calculating. Several guards enter the room and close the door behind them. “What are you doing in Emon?”

“We are going to kill the Briarwoods,” says Grog, but hang on, that’s secret, why is he saying that –

“Are you indeed,” says Shenn softly, stroking his chin. “Very interesting…”

The warm, familiar feeling is gone like Grog’s been doused in cold water. “Hang on a minute,” he says, glaring at Shenn. “You fucking charmed me!”

“Yes, I did.” He swats away a gnat buzzing about his head. “Don’t take it personally, I just had to protect _myself,_ you understand?”

The bastard, he lured Grog in here, got him to confess – Grog surges to his feet, hands clenching in fists. The guards tense, holding their weapons ready. Shenn just looks bored. “Don’t be tiresome, there’s five of us and one of you, strong as I’m sure you are you won’t last very long.”

The gnat circles around Grog and turns into Keyleth, landing in a half-crouch with her staff held ready. “There’s two of us, _Shenn,_ ” she says, voice rough with contempt. “And we’ll last a lot longer than you think.”

Frowning, Shenn gets to his feet, cane aimed at them. “So there are two of you,” he says. “Her Majesty will be _very_ interested in hearing that –”

“Right,” mutters Grog to Keyleth, standing back to back to her. “He has to die.”

She shakes with tension. “I’m not going to argue,” and sends a firebolt at Shenn.

He yelps, diving behind the desk just in time. Flames explode around it and the four guards shout, running at Grog and Keyleth. Shouting in rage, Grog grabs the spear from the first one and throws him to the ground, knocking over another. One more guard swings at Grog and hits him in the side. It stings.

Grunting, Grog swings the spear around and knocks it into the side of that guard’s head. He staggers but stays upright, face taught.

Keyleth and Shenn are dueling spells, bright flashes of color in Grog’s peripheral. He parries a blow from the guard in front of him and goes for a gut stab that glances off his plate mail. Pain hits Grog between the shoulders, sharp and stabbing, and he roars.

Guards surround him, all jabbing at him with their pikes. Bellowing like a bull, Grog smashes the Knuckles together and grows bigger and bigger until his head nearly scrapes the ceiling. The guards around him gape. He swings with one massive fist and strikes one in the temple, dropping him like a stone. Kicks another in the balls and he crumples. More blades pierce his skin and Grog strikes out at any target he can. Punch – punch – punch – he can barely see beyond the red haze in his eyes, he smells blood –

The study doors burst open and more guards rush in, many more, their weapons at the ready. “Shit!” shrieks Keyleth, and raises a wall of wind in the doorway. It buffets the guards in front and they stagger, weapons clattering to the floor. “We gotta get out of here –”

They can’t let Shenn live. “Shenn!” roars Grog, pounding his fists together. “Come out and _play._ ”

Panting, monocle gone, hair falling in his face, Shenn is backed into a corner. “I could help you,” he says. “I know their ways, I know where they live, what they do –”

“Really?” says Grog, looming over him.

Blood drips from Shenns nose. “Yes,” he says, eyes flicking nervously between Grog and Keyleth.

One of the guards pushes against the wind wall, straining, his clothing blown backwards. Keyleth glances nervously at him, still holding her crackling staff towards Shenn. “Grog, grab me and I can plane-shift us out of here –”

“You’re right, we should just kill him and get out of here,” and Grog raises one fist above Shenn’s head to smash him in.

“No!” yelps Shenn, cringing against the wall. “No, no, please, I’ll tell you anything –”

“Give me your cane,” says Grog, holding his hand out. Shenn hesitates, and Grog raises his fist again. Hastily Shenn holds the cane out, and Grog breaks it and snaps it in half. “And your monocle.”

“Grog,” chides Keyleth.

Shenn looks up at him askance. “Why?”

“I want it, give it here.”

Fingers fumbling, Shenn unclips the monocle from his vest and hands it to Grog. Grog puts it in his good eye and squints. Through the glass the world is blurry and red. When he looks at Shenn he sees a faint glow on the ring on his hand, and when he looks at Keyleth the staff glows brightly.

“Call your guards off,” says Keyleth, edging towards Shenn.

Shenn looks over at them, blood smeared across his face. Two guards have fought their way through the wind by this point. “Hold off,” he says.

The guards stare at him. One of them asks, “Are you sure?”

Shenn nods. “My dear,” he says to Keyleth, “if you could be so kind…”

She growls at him but lets the wind wall drop. Several guards clatter to the floor.

“Well,” says Shenn, wincing as he pushes himself to his feet. “Shall we perhaps take a break and clean ourselves up before we start planning this assassination?”

“Are we really doing this?” Keyleth looks from him to Grog and back again. “Why would you help us?”

“Well, so you don’t kill me, for starters,” sniffs Shenn. He wipes blood off his face on his sleeve and grimaces. “Also I’m not exactly fond of those two, to be honest.”

Grog asks, “Why? You miss living in the sewers?”

“Hardly,” drawls Shenn. “I fully intend to keep this house. But let’s just say that King Sylas and Queen Delilah have unleashed some… _unsavory_ elements into this city that are worse than the Clasp ever was.”

Keyleth has her eyes narrowed. “How _did_ you get this house?” she asks, soft and dangerous.

Drawing himself up, Shenn smoothes down the front of his vest. “It was a gift,” he says, all snooty. “Received from the new king and queen as a thank you for services rendered.”

Keyleth’s grip on the staff white-knuckles, and she hunches forward. “What services?”

He shrinks, eyes shifting back and forth. “I provided information and guidance on how to enter the city… _discreetly._ ”

That doesn’t sound too bad to Grog, but Keyleth grabs Shenn by the collar and flings him onto the charred remains of his desk, slamming him on his back. Sparks fly off her. “Traitor!” she shrieks, and punches him in the face.

Shenn howls in pain. His guards hover nervously, unsure whether to rescue him or not. Grog lets Keyleth get a few good punches in before grabbing her around the waist and dragging her off. She snarls and struggles in his arms like a wildcat, hair flying everywhere, antlers smacking him in the face. On the floor, Shenn groans, his face covered in fresh blood. “Hey now,” says Grog. “I get it, but we need him to talk a little, yeah?”

Keyleth growls.

The guards have started dragging their injured and dead comrades out of the ground. One approaches Shenn cautiously. “My lord?” he says. “May I assist you?”

“Yes,” snaps Shenn. He groans as the guard helps him up, dabs gingerly at his face with his sleeve. “If this is to be a _partnership,_ ” he says to Keyleth, “then I need to be assured that I will not be _attacked._ ” He squints accusingly at her. “Unless you’re still too proud to deal with the Clasp?”

Keyleth radiates heat. “No,” she says grudgingly.

“Good.” Shenn draws together what little dignity he has left. “Then we will reconvene later tonight. Until then, get out of my house.”


	4. obliteration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter depicts injury and death to dogs.

Grog and Keyleth hunker down for a while in one of the alleys. The streets up here are strangely empty. Only the occasional wealthy group wanders through, and guards patrol regularly. A few times Grog and Keyleth get harassed by guards into moving on, but none of them actually follow to make sure they leave the district, so they just wander around. Grog uses the silver he got for the deer to buy some meat pies from a street vendor, and he and Keyleth share them, crouched in the shadow of a pile of rubble. The pies are rich and greasy, turning Grog’s stomach, and he looks forward to some great farts later.

As dusk falls, they head back to Shenn’s house. The guards at the gate don’t want to let them in. “Look,” says Grog, who is fed up to the teeth with bronze-plated guards telling him where he can and can’t go. “We have business with Lord Shenn and if you don’t let us in I am going to use your fucking heads as nutcrackers.”

The guards are not impressed.

“You know how like five of your buddies are dead right now?” hisses Keyleth, getting up close in his face. He leans back and turns his head away, looking disgusted. “We did that, and then Shenn just let us walk away. So I’d say we’re pretty clearly in his favor and you better let us in, unless you want to hear from your _boss_ that you got in the way of his friends.”

The guard looks askance over at his companion, who shrugs. “Lord Shenn did let them go,” she says.

“Fine.” The other guard grumbles and unlocks the gate, swinging it open. “The second either of you steal anything you’ll be down to the stocks faster than you can squeal.”

Grog opens his mouth to retort but Keyleth grabs him by the baldric and tugs him forward. Varion waits for them by the front door, nose turned up and mouth turned down like he’s stepped in dog shit. They are ushered not into the study but into the dining room, where Shenn sits at the head of the table.

“So you’re back,” he says, dabbing his lips with his napkin. Only crumbs are left on his plate, servants clearing platters of roast chicken and pastries and shellfish off the table, and Grog’s stomach growls loudly. “I was half-expecting you to abscond with my silverware into the night.”

“We don’t care about your money,” says Keyleth scathingly.

Shenn sniffs. The blood is gone from his face, the cuts mended, but he still looks swollen around the eyes and cheeks. “Sit,” he says, gesturing to chairs. “But leave your weapons by the door, if you don’t mind.”

Sneakily, Grog puts his hands behind his back. Keyleth clenches her staff and says, “No.”

Raising his eyebrows, Shenn says, “Then this conversation will progress no further.”

Booted footsteps approach behind Grog. Turning, he sees many, many guards – at least eight – filing up behind him and Keyleth, weapons at the ready. The hands of several glow with magic. “Sorry,” says Grog, clenching his fists. “Not happening.”

Shenn sighs and says, “Don’t be tiresome, it’s just a precaution, especially considering the havoc you wreaked earlier –”

“What if we just left them on the table?” asks Keyleth.

After a long moment of deliberation, Shenn nods his head. “All right.”

Inching forward, Keyleth warily lowers herself into a chair at the opposite end of the table from Shenn, laying her staff down arm’s length away. Grog sits beside her, looking wistfully after the last servant leaving with a platter of half-eaten food. “So,” says Keyleth.

“So,” says Shenn, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, hands folded in front of his mouth. “First, some precautions.” He motions to the guards and they back out, shutting the doors behind them. There’s no one left in the room now besides him, Keyleth, and Grog. “First of all, you do not speak of this outside this room. I want nothing – _nothing_ – connecting whatever’s about to happen back to me. No one knows besides us. Do you understand?”

“What about the guards who were in the study earlier?” Keyleth asks, frowning.

Shenn smiles an ugly smile at her. “I had them executed.”

Keyleth gapes at him in horror and anger, but Grog doesn’t care. They probably would have snitched on them anyway. “Second,” continues Shenn. “There needs to be something in this for _me._ ”

“You mean, besides a power vacuum and the city being free of undead giants and vampires,” says Keyleth.

Grog offers, “They probably have a _lot_ of treasure.”

“I have gold,” Shenn says, dangerously soft. “That’s not what I’m after.”

“Jewels?” says Grog. “Weapons. Magic things. Really fancy shit.”

A smile curling the edges of his lips, Shenn shakes his head. “Information.”

“What kind of information?” asks Keyleth warily.

“I know Lady Delilah Briarwood came back from the dead.” Shenn leans forward, a hungry, glittering look in his eyes. “I want to know how. I need to learn her secrets.”

“And you think if we get you into the palace and kill the Briarwoods, you can find that out.” Keyleth speaks slowly, her knees drawn up to her chest.

“I know I can.”

Pulling out the ruby monocle, Grog puts it in his eye and leans back in his chair, surveying Shenn. His vest glows too now, as do carvings in the corners of the ceiling. “And why do you want to know?” Grog asks loftily.

Shenn eyes him disbelievingly. “So that I can do it myself, obviously,” he says.

“Oh.” Grog should have thought of that. “Yeah.” A second thought comes to him. “Why do you want to come back from the dead? You don’t have _evil plans,_ do you?”

“No,” says Shenn, a strange look on his face. “No, I just don’t want to die.”

“Generally everyone I’ve met who wanted to cheat death turned out to be kind of evil,” says Keyleth.

Hands held out, Shenn says, “Look, I don’t care about world domination, all right? I’m not interested. I just want to keep living in my nice house with my good food and occasional other… pleasures.” He grins, baring yellow teeth. “And I’m not particularly keen on whatever may await me on the other side.”

Keyleth gives Grog a very significant look, but he doesn’t know what it means. “Okay,” she says stiffly. “We accept that.”

Grog leans down and whispers to her, “Really? We’re just gonna let him know all this secret stuff?”

“ _Yes,_ ” says Keyleth, and kicks him under the table.

“Don’t be tiresome and doublecross me, please, it won’t work,” sighs Shenn. “Besides, if you can take down the Briarwoods I can’t imagine I’ll pose much of a problem, hm?”

 Grog glares at him. “I like whichever plan has you talking the least.”

\--

The summer sun shines brassy and glaring on the Emon countryside. The ground, baked hard and dry, radiates heat back up. The woods are full of the relentless buzz of cicadas. The leaves on the trees are dry before they even fall, and the weeds under Grog’s feet might as well be straw.

Crouching in the thorny underbrush, Grog wipes sweat off his forehead, settles his battleaxe (courtesy of Shenn) more comfortably across his knees. He smells dust and something toasty. Flies buzz around him and he swats them away irritably.

He’s been waiting for hours now, as the sun slowly climbs through the sky. Grog resolves to break Shenn’s jaw if his information turns out to be wrong.

Sound reaches his ears, different from the incessant insect hum. Horse hooves and snorting, dogs barking, and then the languid chatter of people. Grog stiffens, gripping his axe tighter, his haunches tensing. Careful not to crack any dry branches, he peers through the brambles hiding him.

Queen Delilah Briarwood rides down the road, dressed in dark green and with a falcon on her wrist. Her horse champs at the bit, white sweat dotting its flanks. Behind her follow courtiers on horses and servants on foot, more falcons, a whole pack of hounds. Grog holds his breath as the party approaches him. Don’t move a muscle. Don’t make a sound.

Sitting up straight on her fine horse, Delilah trots past Grog. Heart pounding, he wills himself to blend into the thick brush surrounding him. She continues without a downward glance, her eyes (one dark, one lurid green) bored, her forehead and cheeks dewy. Neither she nor her horse notices the magic ground until it’s too late.

Both horse and rider shriek as they tumble into the pit, the falcon tethered to Delilah’s wrist flapping furiously. The rest of the party reigns up hard, shouting in alarm. “Your Majesty!”

From deep in the earth comes her voice, shaken but angry. “Get me up, you fools!”

Right. That’s Grog’s cue.

Axe held high above his head, he jumps out into the road behind the hunting party. “Oi!” he bellows. “Come and get me!”

The courtiers and servants wheel around. Grog doesn’t wait but takes off running, down the road away from them.

“Get him!” several shout. Dogs bay loudly behind Grog and he runs faster, lungs heaving, dust in his nose, palms sweating, and he takes a hard left into the overgrown woods.

The brambles and undergrowth are too dense for horses to follow, not quickly. Grog smashes through, thorns scratching him and whipping him into a rage. The dogs still howl pursuit behind him. Grinning madly, his heart pumping, adrenaline electrifying him, Grog runs deeper and deeper into the woods.

He is far, far away from the road now. Panting, Grog staggers to a halt and turns around. The hounds bark furiously, fighting their way through the undergrowth towards him. The one in front is a big black brute, with a thick neck and square jaws. He lunges up to Grog, and then stops, sniffing furiously.

“Yeah,” says Grog, kneeling, and holds out a hand. “You know me.”

The dog whines, confused, the rest of the pack struggling to catch up to him. Reaching into his belt, Grog holds out a piece of dried meat, just like he’s done every day at the Briarwoods' kennel for the past two weeks. “Here,” he says. “See? Just me. Just a friend.”

Delicately for such big teeth, the hound takes the meat from Grog’s fingers and chomps it down. As the other dogs catch up the swarm around Grog, tails wagging, slobbery faces thrust in his. He feeds them scraps of jerky until the whole pack is gathered around him eagerly. “Good dogs!” says Grog, standing. “Now come on!” And he starts running again.

Barking again, the dogs leap after Grog. He crashes through the underbrush, back up towards the pit in the road. His lungs burn and his legs ache but he can’t stop, can’t slow down, every second he delays is another second Keyleth fights Delilah on her own.

Sunlight and dust ahead of him, bright. Grog sprints with renewed energy, his pack bounding behind him. He breaks through the tree line and into the open space of the road.

A thick wall of thorns blocks the road behind him. In front the magic ground has disappeared, revealing the broad, deep pit. Grog can’t see the horse, but he can hear it groaning.

Lady Delilah, her fancy clothes dirty and torn, blood running down her face, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, stands with one hand clutching her side and the other stretched out like a talon. Keyleth stands across from her, staff shaking in her hands, a snarl carved on her face. The air between them crackles with magic.

“Here, boy!” says Grog, grabbing the collar of the lead hound. “Sic ‘em!” and he points at Delilah.

The dogs howl and leap forward, rushing at her. Delilah whips around in surprise and in that moment, Keyleth’s spell wins and Delilah is blasted off her feet, knocking her back into the ground. Immediately she is overwhelmed by the pack as they tear at her, barking furiously –

A spray of color bursts out of her. The dogs are flung off her, some crumbling into dust or bursting into flames or screaming under an acid spray. The whimpering is horrible. Axe at the ready, Grog charges up behind Delilah. Keyleth swings her staff around and a fireball shoots out of it, engulfing Delilah just as she gets to her feet.

The flames have barely cleared before Grog runs in and swings. He catches her in the arm, nearly severing it, and she screams hoarsely, knees buckling.

“Enough!” hisses Delilah, flinging her good hand out, and a sickly green ray of light streaks at Grog. He ducks, but too late, and it hits him in the shoulder.

Grog groans, nearly dropping the axe. He gasps for air, arms trembling with effort, and despite the heat he feels cold. Rallying, he grips the axe again, staggering back towards Delilah.

Running closer, Keyleth shoots out lightning bolt after lightning bolt. Delilah parries as best she can, panting in between strikes, “Why – won’t – you – stay – down –”

“I could say the same for you,” growls Grog, and aims for her knees.

This time there’s a flash of purple light and Delilah disappears. Grog overswings and stumbles, nearly falling flat on his face. But Delilah stands yards behind Keyleth now, one finger pointed at her and with darkness gathering around it –

“Keyleth!” bellows Grog. “Behind you!”

She drops to the ground just as Delilah casts the spell. It streaks over Keyleth’s head and hits Grog square in the chest.

\--

Grog comes to as a warm, wet tongue works across his face. Groaning, he fumbles blindly above him, meets something solid and trembling. This better not be Keyleth, he thinks, and opens his eye.

Whining, the black hound pushes its nose into Grog’s cheek, paws at him. Grog winces and sits up, one hand massaging his aching chest. The air is full of sunlight and dust, and the bugs are still buzzing.

A dog yelps. Grog looks behind him and sees Keyleth moving among the wounded dogs, her hands glowing green-gold. She kneels by one that lies whimpering, its fur burned off and the raw skin red and blistered, and touches her hand to its head.

The light envelops the dog, and when it dims the burns are healed. Whining, the dog scrambles up, pushing its head into Keyleth’s hand, and she pets it a couple times before moving to the next one.

“Where’s Delilah?” asks Grog, looking around.

“Gone.” Keyleth’s voice is hard and brittle. She kneels by the next wounded dog, this one trembling and crying with its face melted to the bone by acid, its side split open. This time her hand goes to the knife at her belt and she plunges the knife into its chest. The dog goes limp.

Grog takes off the Knuckles on his right hand, scritches the black hound on the scruff of its neck. “Where?”

“The palace.” Keyleth stands, staring at the corpses scattered around her. The few surviving dogs cluster at her heels, tails wagging, ears pinned back. There is no sound from the horse in the pit.

Grunting, the black hound turns its butt towards Grog, its thick tail hitting him in the shoulder, and Grog obligingly scratches the base of its spine. The tangled wall of thorns still blocks the road. Grog listens hard but can’t hear anyone else behind it. “So… now what?”

“I don’t know!” snaps Keyleth. Sparks fly off the end of her staff. Dried blood crusts the side of her face, matting her hair. “She knows we’re here. We won’t catch her by surprise again.”

“So we don’t try,” says Grog. “Let’s hit her. Hard. Now.”

Keyleth stares at him. “Grog, you nearly _died,_ ” she says. “All it took was two spells and you could have been dead. Do you understand?”

Shrugging, Grog says, “So I won’t let her hit me next time.”

“If you die, I can’t bring you back!” Keyleth snarls, crouching suddenly in front of him. “No one can! Pike’s not here, Kash isn’t here. They can’t bring you back!” Angry tears streak down her face and she grabs Grog’s arm, fingers digging into his bicep. “There’s no one left.”

“I know!” Grog seizes her wrist and breaks her grasp. Keyleth winces and strains against his hand. His chest is hot and tight. “Stop telling me –”

 _Let’s not make this difficult,_ says Delilah, ragged with pain and anger. Grog looks around frantically but doesn’t see her. _You and the druid turn yourselves in at the West Gate. For every day you don’t, ten citizens will be executed._

“Uhhh,” says Grog.

Keyleth stares at him. “Grog?”

Doing his best to sound casual, Grog says, “Did you hear that?”

She looks at him askance. The dogs have flopped down around them, panting in the heat. “Hear what?”

“Delilah Briarwood talking? In my head?”

Keyleth’s face goes hard and white as bone. “What did she say?”

Squinting in concentration, Grog recites, “She says we should be difficult and turn ourselves in at the West Gate or else ten citizens will be exercised.”

Keyleth frowns, confused. “Exercised?”

“Yeah. You know.” Grog mimes chopping. “Exercised.”

All the fight drains out of Keyleth. “You mean executed,” she says faintly.

“Yeah,” says Grog. “Is that not what I said?”

“If we don’t surrender, she’ll kill ten people,” whispers Keyleth, hollow.

“Ten people every day,” amends Grog.

Keyleth curses, drops her face into her hands. Grog swats at the gnats hovering around him. “We have to go then, don’t we?” she says, muffled.

Grog tries to picture the tradeoff. “How many is ten?” he asks.

“Both hands,” hiccups Keyleth.

“Oh.” That’s a lot of people. “Maybe Shenn can sneak us back into the city and we kill the Briarwoods first?”

“Shenn!” Keyleth flips her head up, the bones in her hair clinking together. “I need to scry on him –”

Her eyes go blank white, her lips moving soundlessly. For a moment, two moments, several moments, she sits still, and then comes back to her surroundings with a gasp. She’s shaking. “They arrested him,” says Keyleth. “They’re dragging him out of his house.”

Grog can’t bother to be upset. “Good riddance.”

“We have to turn ourselves in, don’t we,” says Keyleth hoarsely. “We’ll never get close to them otherwise.”

Grog feels like he’s missing something. “Couldn’t we just sneak into the city again?”

“And then what? The palace is locked down and crawling with guards, we’ll never get close to the Briarwoods, and every day we’re not there ten more people die.”

“So what, we just walk up and let them kill us?” Grog twitches irritably, trying to shake flies off. “What good is that?”

Keyleth’s shoulders slump. “I don’t know,” she sighs.

Standing, Grog circles his axe in one hand, rolls his shoulders. He still feels the ache from whatever Delilah cast on him, cuts on his arms and legs stinging. The black hound looks up at him, tail thumping hopefully. “If we’re going to attack, we should do it now,” he decides. “While she’s still hurting.” He’s not good at planning, doesn’t have the brains, they need Percy here. “What would Percy want to do?”

That startles a rueful laugh out of Keyleth. “Build a trebuchet, probably,” she says, wiping her eyes. “Assume that we’re being… watched…” Her voice trails off and her eyes widen in dismay. “Oh. Oh, no.”

Grog checks over his shoulders for approaching bad guys. Nothing. “What?”

“She can scry on us, I’m sure,” Keyleth whispers. “Now that she knows we’re here. We’ll never be able to sneak in…”

His gut turns cold and heavy. “Shit.”

“We have to turn ourselves in.” Taking a deep breath, Keyleth grips her staff close. “It’s the only way to get close to them.”

“You don’t think they’ll just kill us immediately?”

Keyleth frowns, chewing her lip. “No, I think Delilah would want to talk to us, maybe see if anyone else survived.”

Talking is good. Talking gives them time. Grog sighs, pounding the handle of the axe into the dry ground. “All right.”

\--

As the sun falls, casting bloody rays over the barren landscape, Keyleth and Grog walk up to the west gate. The pack of dogs trots alongside them, eager to go home.

Rows and rows of soldiers wait at the gate, crossbows at the ready. A zombie giant looms over them. As Grog and Keyleth approach the soldiers stiffen. “Hands in the air!” yells one, who has captain’s stripes on his tunic. “Stop right there!”

Grudgingly, Grog stops, holds his hands up. A bunch of soldiers jog over, crossbows still trained on him. They take his Knuckles and the battleaxe, and take Keyleth’s staff and the knife at her belt. They put iron shackles on Grog’s wrists and ankles and an iron collar on his neck, spikes on the inside pressing into his throat. For Keyleth they use lead, cuffing her hands and feet and muzzling her. Her eyes burn green above the engraved metal.

The soldiers march Grog and Keyleth through Emon, past wide-eyed citizens. Grog shuffles along, quietly simmering, never losing sight of the soldier carrying the Titanstone Knuckles. They walk and walk and walk and the sun sinks lower and lower. By the time they climb the hill to the royal palace twilight has fallen. Without the sunlight the air is chilly now.

The palace looks the same on the outside, still a little battered from the dragon invasion. The great doors swing open and Grog and Keyleth are pushed in, their chains clinking. Through the grand hallway, through more double doors, and then they’re standing in the throne room in front of King Sylas and Queen Delilah.

Delilah sits on the throne on the dais, dark velvet hung in swoops around her and over the windows. Sylas stands at her side. “Bring them forward,” says Delilah, clipped.

The guards shove Grog and Keyleth towards the dais, their footsteps echoing on the polished marble floor. Grog suppresses a growl. The captain of the soldiers steps forward, bearing the Knuckles and the staff, and presents them to Delilah.

One eyebrow arched, she inspects the Knuckles, then hands them to her husband. He slides them onto his hands appreciatively as she takes up the Spire of Conflux. “Good to know there’s two Vestiges that Vecna didn’t get his hands on,” she murmurs, running her fingers along the staff. It casts a lurid green light on her face. “Thank you, Captain.”

He bows and retreats, back to the door with the other guards.

“So.” Delilah returns to her seat, the staff laid across her lap. “Is it just the two of you?”

Grog stares back at her stonily.

Delilah sighs. “Dearest,” she says to Sylas. “Would you?”

“Of course.” Sylas’ voice is smooth and dark as ever, and he glides over to Keyleth. She flinches away but Sylas grabs her around the waist and at the back of her head, yanking her hair back to expose her neck. He grins, and the light glints off his fangs. Behind the muzzle, Keyleth breathes heavily, and her wide eyes are fixed on Sylas.

“I’ll ask you again,” says Delilah. “Where is the rest of Vox Machina?”

Taking a deep breath, Grog focuses _very very hard_ on becoming mist again. It starts in his fingers, a fuzzy tingling.

“Answer me,” snaps Delilah.

Grog holds his breath and concentrates –

“I believe he needs some persuading,” says Sylas, and dodges Keyleth's antlers to sink his teeth into her neck.

She cries out and struggles, kicking Sylas in the knees. He grunts and hangs onto her. Grog won’t be distracted, just scrunches his face up and keeps thinking about mist. His feet tingle now too.

“Stop,” says Delilah, rising from the chair. “I think something’s wrong with him.”

Sylas pulls away, his mouth smeared with blood. Gasping for air and ghostly white, Keyleth sags in his arms. The vague fuzzy feeling spreads through Grog, up his limbs and through his body –

The shackles clatter to the ground as he becomes mist, a fart traveling on the wind. “Stop him!” yells Delilah, shooting a beam of red light at Grog. He darts up to the vaulted ceiling and fire explodes on the wall behind him.

The plan was for Keyleth to become mist too, she'd cast wind walk on both of them, but she isn’t transforming. Maybe she can’t? Maybe Sylas took too much blood from her. Delilah runs into the middle of the room and shoots another spell at Grog. This one clips him, stinging painfully.

Right. Grog darts into the shadowy corner, concentrating on having a body again. Crossbow bolts fly up at him, so does another spell. Dodging them, he swoops down towards Sylas, and as he gets closer his body becomes heavy and muscled again –

Yelling, he drops down on top of Sylas, knees into his shoulders. Sylas grunts and he, Grog, and Keyleth all go tumbling to the floor. Grog rolls over and the first thing he sees is Sylas’ crotch and without thinking he headbutts, _hard._

Sylas wheezes, curling in on himself. Pain like a hammerfist strikes Grog in the back, knocking the air out of him. Crossbow bolt. Lunging forward, he grabs Sylas and gets the vampire in between himself and the guards, wrestling for the Knuckles. Keyleth struggles furiously against her chains, Delilah yells orders at the guards –

“ _No_ ,” growls Sylas, still winded, and Grog gets him in an armlock and bends the wrong way. A sickening snap rings out in the room, and Sylas roars in pain as his arm goes limp. Grog wrenches the gauntlet off his broken arm and flings himself over Keyleth just as another spell from Delilah streaks at her.

The spell hits Grog like a ton of freezing cold bricks. He grunts, curling around Keyleth, shoving his hand in the one gauntlet he has. Arms wrap around his neck, weight on his back – Sylas – and Grog rolls over and drives his whole weight into the ground.

Sylas’ head meets marble floor with a crack and he groans. Grog grabs Sylas’ other wrist, yanks the gauntlet off, and as he puts it on renewed strength flows through his body.

Two more crossbow bolts strike him in the side. Grog bellows, the red haze obscuring his vision. Lunging at Keyleth, he seizes the buckle of her muzzle and snaps it.

Keyleth gasps for air as the heavy metal falls away from her face. Grog breaks the chains linking her wrists, her ankles, and surges to his feet just in time to clothesline Sylas. Another crossbow bolt sinks into him and he staggers, _that_ one hurt, and Grog smashes his fists together and grows and grows. These fuckers are getting on his last nerve. He runs at them, grabs the heads of the two guards with crossbows and smashes them together like he’s trying to crush something between them.

Their heads cave in like eggshells, blood splattering over Grog. The captain staggers back, saying, “Oh fuck.”

Grog turns his bloodshot grin on him. “You’re next.”

He’s interrupted by Sylas, who swings a sword one-handed at him. Grog jumps back, throws a punch that Sylas dodges, and has to immediately turn and defend himself from the captain’s sword.

Keyleth wrestles on the floor with Delilah, one of her chains wrapped tight around Delilah’s wrist. Spinning to keep Sylas in his peripheral, Grog kicks blindly at the captain. His foot doesn’t connect, and Grog follows through, spins, and drives his fist into the captain’s jaw.

The captain drops to the floor, out cold. Grog doesn’t get a second to breathe before Sylas roars into his blind spot and drives his sword into Grog’s gut.

Grog roars in pain but grabs the blade, keeping it from sliding in further. Sylas clutches the hilt with one hand, his other arm hanging limp at his side, his upper lip pulled back from his long teeth. “Why won’t you just _die?_ ” he hisses.

“Because I’m your worst fucking nightmare,” says Grog, grinning, hot pain piercing his abdomen, and wrenches the sword out. The momentum sends Sylas staggering, the sword flying out of his grasp. Keyleth and Delilah shriek at each other behind Grog.

Panting, Grog spreads his arms out and beckons to Sylas. “Bite me,” says Grog.

Sylas lunges and then sidesteps, pivoting towards his sword. Grog doesn’t let him get that far. He tackles Sylas to the ground, landing on top of him. Snarling, Sylas tries to throw Grog off, and when that doesn’t work he grabs Grog’s forearm and sinks his teeth in. Grog yanks his arm back towards his chest and Sylas’ head snaps up, and he gags. Wrapping his other arm around Sylas’ throat, Grog squeezes and squeezes –

And falls flat on his face, Sylas gone from under him. A bat flaps rapidly away, towards the throne.

The two women still struggle, Keyleth desperately keeping the chain on Delilah. In a puff of dark smoke the bat turns back into Sylas, right by his sword and out of melee range from Grog, but in striking distance of Keyleth. All Grog can think of in the moment is what Scanlan would do –

“Oi!” he yells at Sylas. “You’re fucking ugly!”

Sylas pauses for a brief second, surprise crossing his face, and that’s all the time Grog needs to hurl one of the Titanstone Knuckles at him with as much force as he possibly can. It hits Sylas in the face, knocking him back. Blood streams down Sylas’ face from his broken nose. Grog charges him and they both hit the floor, the sword falling out of Sylas’ hand. They scrabble madly for it, hands knocking each aside, but Grog seizes the hilt first and stabs Sylas right through the chest.

Breath punches out of Sylas, blood spattering off his lips, and he jolts upward before collapsing to the floor. He’s pinned but not dead, and he claws at Grog’s face, nails raking over Grog’s cheek and his already-destroyed eye. Grog grins down at him and drives the sword in farther, the tip splinters against the marble. “You can’t kill me,” gurgles Sylas, eyes wild. “We will rise again –”

“Bullshit you will,” says Grog, using his weight to pin the still-struggling Sylas. His foot clatters against something – one of the guards’ crossbows. Straining back, he grabs the crossbow and breaks it in half, raises the jagged haft high above Sylas.

Sylas’ eyes widen.

“Eat shit, bitch,” says Grog, and plunges the chunk of wood straight into Sylas’ heart.

Sylas groans, neck straining, his skin going gray. He doesn’t die but all the fight drains out of him, limbs flopping down. He gasps for air in shallow breaths.

Grog sits up, breathing hard himself. Looks over at Keyleth. She straddles Delilah, one of the chains from her manacles pulled tight around Delilah’s neck. Delilah chokes, clawing at the chain, eyes bulging.

“Delilah,” gasps Sylas, reaching feebly for her. Grog yanks the sword out of his chest, dark blood spraying, and holds Sylas’ head down. The wiry muscles in Keyleth’s arms are taut as she yanks hard, her face twisted. Delilah is turning red and she scrabbles at Keyleth, nails drawing blood. Grog raises his sword to behead Sylas –

“Don’t,” says Keyleth through gritted teeth. “Grog! He’ll turn into mist.”

Grog freezes, sword held over his head. Underneath him Sylas struggles weakly, groaning. Delilah’s attempts to break free grow more frantic, her feet pushing against the floor, her hands clawing at Keyleth’s, Keyleth hangs on like grim death, sweat dripping down her forehead, her arms trembling. Sylas tries to call out to her, but has no air left.

Delilah moves in spastic jerks. Her face is purple, eyes bloodshot, tongue lolling out. She chokes and twitches, spittle drying on her lips. Sylas groans, grey veins standing out on his neck and forehead, but is helpless as Grog holds him down.

With a final gasp, Delilah stiffens and then goes completely limp. For a long few moments, there is silence. Wincing, Keyleth drops the chain and straightens, flexing her fingers. One of her eyes is red and swollen shut, her lip split and bleeding. “No,” Sylas rasps, barely audible. “No no no –”

Keyleth gets to her feet. “Grog,” she says hoarsely. “Get these chains off me.”

“Stay,” Grog tells Sylas, although he’s not going anywhere with that stake in his chest, and stands and goes to Keyleth. She holds her shaking hands out to him.

With both Knuckles on, it’s easy for Grog to break the soft lead and snap the clasps. The manacles come clattering off and Keyleth rubs her wrists. Kneeling, Grog does the same for her ankle bonds. As the final one falls away Keyleth shudders, a faint brief glow passing over her. “That’s better,” she sighs, and lays a hand on Grog’s head. Warmth passes through him, and the wound in his stomach closes.

As the rage fades, he becomes conscious of his multiple other wounds, of the crossbow bolts still sticking into him. Grimacing, Grog yanks them out one by one, as Keyleth walks to where Sylas lies gasping on the ground. She stares down at him for a long moment, face cold and hard. “You should have stayed dead,” she says quietly.

Sylas’ lips move soundlessly, his throat working as he strains to speak. His pale hands arch like claws, skittering over the polished floor. Keyleth holds out a palm towards him, her hand and eyes burning brighter and brighter. The light grows as bright as the sun, blinding Grog, illuminating the dim hall. He winces, turning away. There’s a thin wailing scream. The light fades, and Grog screws his eyes open, seeing stars dance. Where Sylas was is now a pile of dark ash.

“We should,” pants Keyleth, staring down at the ash, “we should get out of here.”

Grog nods towards the throne. “Don’t forget your staff.”

“Yeah.” Keyleth walks over, slow and stiff, and retrieves it. The hall is silent and echoing and dark, Keyleth’s form reflected ghostly in the polished floor. Delilah lies still, her face contorted. Her green eye spins wildly in its socket.

“Should we take care of that?” asks Grog, pointing at her with his sword.

Keyleth hefts her staff. “Stand aside.”

She barely waits for him to get clear of the body before fire streaks out of her staff, engulfing Delilah’s corpse. When the swirling flames clear Delilah is ash as well, but the eye remains, swiveling in place. “Well,” says Grog, staring down at it. “That’s fucking creepy.”

There’s a knock at the door.

Keyleth and Grog both freeze, staring at each other. “Your Majesties?” says a man from the other side of the double doors.

“Shit,” hisses Keyleth, and grabs Grog’s arm, green-gold sparks swirling around her. “Let’s go –”

“Lady Keyleth?” says the man hesitantly. “Grog?”

Keyleth’s magic fizzles out, her eyes wide. “It’s a trick,” mutters Grog. “Come on –”

“Are you alive?” continues the man. “I am a member of the guard and I promise I mean you no harm.”

Letting go of Grog, Keyleth ghosts over to the door, holding her staff at the ready. Grog swings the sword at his side, settles it in his grip. Shoulders set tight, Keyleth cracks open the door. “What?” she says.

Through the tiny gap, Grog sees the guard slump in relief. “Thank the gods you survived,” he whispers. He looks average, round face, brown hair, but the front of his tunic is soaked in blood. Keyleth opens the door wider and he staggers, clutching his middle. “Not all of us here are loyal to the Briarwoods, you know,” he manages. “Some of us remember Vox Machina.”

Grog hurries up beside Keyleth. The hall beyond the guard stinks of blood, and he steps out through the door.

Crimson is pooled and smeared all across the floor, spattered up the walls. Guards lie scattered about, most dead, but a couple moan and stir weakly. Grog swears under his breath. “What happened?” asks Keyleth.

“Not everyone agreed with us,” says the guard, with an attempt at a smile, and collapses sideways.

Keyleth drops to her knees beside him, her hands glowing green, but the guard grabs her wrist. “No,” he pants. “There’s nothing – left for me here.” He pauses to struggle for breath. “If I die – defending Vox Machina – then it’s a death well spent.”

“Lady Keyleth,” begs another guard, dragging himself towards them on his elbows, leaving a trail of blood. “Heal me – please –”

“Destroy Vecna,” gasps the first guard, grabbing Keyleth’s wrist. “Don’t let them return.”

Grog paces among the dead, human, elf, man, woman, seasoned, young. Kneels by the other still-living guard. She clutches her throat, face white with shock, blood tricking from between her fingers. But even as he puts a hand on her shoulder she trembles and stills, her eyes going glassy.

“What’s your name?” asks Keyleth quietly, her voice echoing in the broad stone hall all the same.

“Marder,” pants the guard.

Grog catches the glimmer of a tear on Keyleth’s cheek. “Rest, well, Marder,” she says, and folds his hands on his chest. He closes his eyes with a sigh.

“Please, heal me, please.” The other guard crawls towards Keyleth, face shining with sweat and blood. “Please…”

Eyes wet, Keyleth turns and reaches out to him. Her hand rests on his shoulder and he lets his head fall, groaning in relief. “Thank you…” he says.

Grog goes to the front doors and cracks them open. The city outside is dark, barely any lights lit. But there are torches in the courtyard and the shouts and clanging of mustered soldiers –

“Keyleth,” says Grog, jerking his head towards outside. “We’ve got to go.”

Standing, she wipes her hands down the front of her tunic, leaving bloody streaks. “Okay,” she whispers, and grips her staff close. A minute of concentration later, and both she and Grog have become mist, slipping out between the doors and far over the heads of the soldiers as they march in. Up they go, over darkened Emon, the bodies of rotting giants slumped in its empty streets, and out into the woods.


	5. eidolon

Keyleth grows a little hut of brambles and shrubs for them to sleep in. “I’ll take first watch,” Grog offers, seeing the sunken skin under her eyes, the way her hands still shake. “You sleep.” She obeys wordlessly, curling up inside the hut. Settling his broken-tipped sword on his knees, Grog sits outside the door, keeps his eye and ears open.

Something uncanny shrieks in the distance, too far away to be a concern. Grog stifles a yawn, itches his scabbed-over wounds. Keyleth had enough energy left to seal up the wounds, stop the worst of the bleeding, but he can feel the aches and bruises coming on already. What he wouldn’t give for a roast turkey leg and a mug of good ale.

A twig snaps in the woods, and somebody grunts as if surprised.

Grog sits bolt upright, hand clenched on the sword hilt, staring into the forest. There’s a full moon tonight, casting enough light to give him decent vision. Does he stay here, or does he investigate?

Another sound catches his ear, this time an exasperated sigh that sounds strangely, hauntingly familiar. Grog gets to his feet, heart pounding fast. _Go,_ says the little voice in his head that sounds like Pike. _See what it is._

Gripping his sword, Grog paces forward slowly, towards the noise, deeper into the woods. “Who’s there?” he whispers loudly.

Silence. Grog peers through the branches and undergrowth for any movement. “Hello?” he says, advancing.

If he wasn’t listening so intently, he’d never catch it. The sudden soft intake of breath. “Grog?” says a man, and Grog knows that voice, he _knows_ it, but it can’t be –

“Where are you?” he says, suspicious, turning around in a circle. “Show yourself!”

Silent as a shadow, a figure slides out in front of him. Male, short and slender, long dark hair. Without thinking Grog turns and swings, but the dark figure darts aside too quickly. “Easy, easy, big guy!” says the impossibly familiar voice from his blind side. “It’s me.”

Grunting, Grog whips around to face him, the moonlight hitting his features full-on now. There stands Vax, his hands held up in front of him, one clutching something slender and shiny. Grog stares at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” he says at last.

“Why yes, I suppose I am.” Vax looks at his own hands as if unsure of them. In the moonlight his skin is gray, his eyes darker than normal.

“Have you been alive this entire time?” Grog narrows his eyes at Vax. He’s heard Keyleth crying his name at night, he knows she’s still hurting, and if Vax hasn’t been here when he could –

“No! No. I was…” Vax passes a hand through his hair, sounding dazed. “I _was_ dead, wasn’t I?”

“Keyleth sure seems to think so,” Grog rumbles. He still hasn’t lowered his sword.

Vax looks stricken. “How long?” he asks.

“How long… what?”

“How long was I dead for?” he sighs.

“Uh.” How long did Keyleth tell Grog he was gone for? “Years.”

“ _Years?_ ” says Vax. “Gods…” He looks at the trees around him, at the sky, at Grog, down at the piece of silver clutched in his hand. “What happened? With… with everything?”

Grog doesn’t know how to talk about that, doesn’t know if he _can_ talk about that, and decides not to answer. “Are you real?” he says, squinting at Vax. It’s hard to tell in the dark.

“Wh- yeah, yeah, I’m real…”

Grog pokes him in the chest. He feels solid enough. He’s also not wearing a shirt. “I’m not convinced,” says Grog. “Tell me something only Vax would know.”

A tired grin creases Vax’s face. “You know, I’m pretty sure there’s still a dent in my left nut from when you flicked it that one time.”

Grog considers. “Very well, you pass the test,” he says, and slaps Vax, just to make extra sure.

Vax staggers, grunting, and puts a hand up to massage his jaw. “Fair enough,” he mutters. “Where’s Keyleth? Where’s my sister?”

He can find out about Vex… later. “Do you want to see Keyleth?” Grog asks.

“Yes,” says Vax instantly.

“All right, come with me.” He leads Vax back through the woods, towards their little camp, very nearly crashing into the lean-to before he realizes it’s there. “Stay here,” he whispers to Vax, and crawls into the hut.

Keyleth is curled up in the far corner, twitching, her breathing shallow. Carefully, Grog taps her on the shoulder. “Keyleth,” he whispers. “Wake up.”

She jerks awake, flinching away with a gasp. “Easy,” says Grog quietly, “it’s just me.”

Sighing, Keyleth pushes tangled hair out of her face. “What is it?” she mumbles.

“There’s something outside you should see.”

She sits fully upright, light reflecting off her pupils. “Good or bad?”

“Good,” says Grog. “I think.”

Keyleth grabs her staff, the green light on the end blossoming to life, and crawls out silently. Grog attempts to follow her but is blocked because she’s standing in front of the doorway. “Um,” says Grog to the backs of her calves. “Can you move…?”

“Vax?” gasps Keyleth.

“Yeah,” he says. “Hi.”

Keyleth is shaking. “Where,” she manages, voice choked, “have – you – been –”

“Well,” says Vax, slowly, “I was dead –”

She lunges forward and Grog can finally crawl out and stand up. “Where have you been?” she screams at Vax, sparks flying off her, and grabs him by the shoulders. “Where _were_ you?”

“Keyleth,” says Vax, his hands curling around her upper arms, “Keyleth, please –”

“You _left!_ ” She shoves him away, hands glowing. “You left me here alone –”

Grog takes offense at that. “Hey.”

Dismay crosses Vax’s face. “What do you mean, alone?” he asks, managing to grab onto Keyleth again. In the light from her hands Grog can see him clearly, and his brown skin is now iron-gray, his eyes all black with yellow irises. He’s buck-naked. “ _Keyleth._ ”

She freezes, gazing at him with wide eyes. “They’re all dead,” she whispers. “Everyone. Vecna won.”

For a long time Vax stands silent and speechless. “My sister?” he asks at last, voice trembling.

Keyleth shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

The shiny thing that Vax had been carrying lies on the floor, abandoned. Grog edges towards it.

Vax is still staring at Keyleth, anger, grief, disbelief all etched on his face. “I’m sorry,” Keyleth says again, shaking in his arms. “Vax, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry…” and she breaks into fierce sobs. Looking dazed, Vax cradles her to his chest.

The shiny thing looks like a small, slender spear of bright silver. Grog bends and picks it up, turning it over curiously. “What’s this?”

“Ah,” says Vax, and a strange look crosses his face. “That’s. She gave it to me.”

Grog frowns. “She?”

No longer crying, Keyleth steps back from Vax. “You mean the Raven Queen,” she says, voice low.

“Yeah,” says Vax, reaching for the silver spear. Grog backs away from him, out of reach. “She gave it to me to kill Vecna.” He talks like he’s discovering each word as he says it.

“I’m holding onto this,” says Grog. A frown flickers across Vax’s face.

“To kill Vecna?” Keyleth looks from Vax to the silver spear. “With that thing? Is it magical?”

“I, uh… I don’t know. I don’t remember. I just know what I’m supposed to do with it.”

The surface of the spear isn’t smooth. It spirals and swirls, bulging in places, and shards of black glass peek through in places. The spear is pointed at both ends. “What do you do with this?” says Grog, testing it in his grip. It’s not much wider than his thumb. “Stab Vecna in the heart?”

“Eye, actually.” Vax’s hands twitch like he wants to take it back from Grog.

“Did _she_ send you back?” asks Keyleth accusingly. “Is she talking to you?”

Staggering, Vax drags his hands over his face, looks for somewhere to sit. “Yeah,” he says, sinking unsteadily to the forest floor. “She sent me back. She –” He pauses, eyes unfocused. “When you killed the Briarwoods. That’s when she knew.”

Keyleth exchanges a wide-eyed glance with Grog. “Knew what?” he says.

“That you could kill Vecna.”

Keyleth’s hysterical laugh peals out into the night. “Oh, but she can’t come down here and do the job herself?”

Shrugging helplessly, Vax folds his arms around his knees. He still looks befuddled. “Is she talking to you right now?” Grog asks.

“No. No.” Vax sighs, scrunching his face up and rubbing his forehead. “No, it’s more like it comes back in flashes.” He looks up at Grog with those strange yellow and black eyes.

Slowly, Keyleth crouches in front of him. She edges forward, eyes wary, and Vax holds his hand out. Like he’s reaching out to a wild animal. Trembling, Keyleth reaches for him and when her fingers touch his, she flinches. “It’s all right,” murmurs Vax.

Keyleth takes his hand, drawing it slowly towards her, and traces her fingers over the lines in his palm. “How long are you here for?”

“Until Vecna is dead.” Vax’s voice goes hard as steel.

Keyleth drops his hand and stands up. “I’m going back to sleep,” she says in a hoarse whisper, and walks back to the lean-to. As she passes Grog static energy crackles off of her.

Expression unreadable, Vax watches her go. “When she says everyone is dead,” he asks, “does she really mean everyone?”

Grog nods.

“Fuck.” Vax presses the heel of his hand into his eyes, takes in a deep shuddering breath. “ _Everyone?_ ”

Racking his brain for anyone they might know doesn’t take very long. “I think so, yeah. Not like all the city people and stuff, but. Yeah.”

“Hah.” Vax’s shoulders shake with a sob, and he grimaces. His hand clenches in the ground, digging up dirt. Unsure of what to do, Grog sits down beside him, turning the silver spear between his fingers. Blinking back tears, Vax stares up at the sky.

“What’s it like?” Grog asks. “Being dead.”

 Vax sighs heavily. “I couldn’t tell you.”

“Oh.” Grog eyes Vax’s skinny body. “Do you want some clothes?”

“I would love some clothes,” Vax admits.

“Well, we don’t have any here, we’ll have to go back to Keyleth’s swamp.” Grog decides to save the bartering for when they have the actual items. “What’s up with your eyes?”

“My eyes?” Vax frowns at him. “Are they different?”

“Yeah, they’re all yellow and black and funny.”

“Huh.” Looking down at his hands, Vax turns them over again. “I’m gray.”

Grog snorts, “What the fuck’s up with that anyway?”

“Hell if I know.” Vax shrugs, and his shoulder bumps into Grog’s. He’s cool to the touch. “You don’t have my armor, do you?”

Grog doesn’t, but maybe Keyleth’s got it hidden away somewhere. “I dunno.”

“Right.” Vax sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and jaw again. His fingers pass over his throat. “Grog,” he says suddenly, eyes snapping open. “I’ve remembered something. Give me your hand.”

Grog knows where this is going. “…Why?”

“I won’t do anything, I promise. Give me your hand.”

Regarding him suspiciously, Grog slowly extends his hand towards Vax, who grasps it. A bright light flares around their hands and burning pain sears into Grog’s palm. He stiffens, jerking away, but Vax hangs on with a death grip. Not until the light subsides does Vax release him. Flexing his fingers, Grog draws his hand back and looks at the symbol of Sarenrae branded on his palm.

“That’s from Pike,” says Vax quietly. “She says she’s watching out for you and knows you’ll make her proud.”

Grog tries very hard not to cry in front of Vax, and then decides he doesn’t care and sniffles anyway. His hand tingles with a strange warmth, and for a second he’s sure he can feel the press of invisible fingers on his. “So you can talk to them after all?” he manages, wiping his nose.

“I guess so.” Vax sighs, elbows wrapped around his knees. “That’s it, though.”

The night is cold and quiet, the stars above them pale and distant. A breeze rustles through the dry treetops. Grog yawns, jaw-cracking. “If I sleep, will you keep watch?”

“Yeah,” says Vax. His eyes stray to the silver spear, but he doesn’t ask for it and Grog doesn’t offer it to him. “Yeah, I will.”

\--

Back in Keyleth’s tree, they sit in a circle on the mossy floor, the silver spear gleaming in between them. “So how do we kill Vecna with this, again?” Keyleth asks.

“Stab him, through the eye.” Vax mimes the action. “It won’t kill him. But it pins him so he can be banished into the Void.”

“And how do we do that?”

Vax sighs heavily. He’s dressed now, in shirt and breeches hastily sewn together from leather. Grog didn’t want to let him have clothes, but Keyleth insisted. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” says Keyleth flatly.

“Yeah.”

Grog is trying to figure out how to get close enough to Vecna to stab that in his eye. The only thing he comes up with is a headache. “So what are we supposed to do then? Wait for the Raven Queen to tell you what to do?”

“I don’t – I don’t know, all right?” Vax sighs in frustration, raking his hands through his hair. “I’m doing this blind just like you are.”

“Maybe it’s magic.” Grog pokes at the spear.

“Of course it’s magic,” sighs Keyleth. The raven is perched on her shoulder, and she absentmindedly scratches it on the head. “What’s it made out of?”

“Platinum,” says Vax slowly. He turns the spear over, his fingers sliding over one of the pieces of dark glass. “These are… I’m not sure. Essence of the Raven Queen.”

Keyleth regards the spear with suspicion. “What does that do?”

“Well, Vecna’s a god, so you must need something divine to trap him.” Frowning, Vax rubs the back of his neck. “Where is Vecna?”

“Lording over Vasselheim.” Keyleth’s voice is heavy with disgust. “Or what’s left of it after he crashed Thar Amphala down on top of it.”

The air in this room under a tree is warm and close, and sweat beads Grog’s forehead. The walls are too near, he has no space to breathe. “Why are we just sitting around, then?” he says. “Let’s go!”

“And do what, Grog?” says Keyleth. “You keep saying ‘we should charge in, we should kill them all,’ but how do you actually plan to do that?”

Grog frowns at her, chest prickly with irritation. “I don’t usually plan.”

“Yeah, I know,” mutters Keyleth, eyebrows raised.

Right. Grog gets up and climbs out of the tree, stepping out on the broad roots. Gloomy croaks mournfully in the branches above him. It’s not happy with the swamp. It seems dull and lethargic in the damp heat. “Hey,” says Grog up to the gloomstalker. “C’mere.”

Shuffling on its branch, Gloomy hisses listlessly. Maybe it’s hungry. Grog jumps into the bog, up to his ankles in mud and his knees in water, watching for fish. He’s seen Keyleth spear fish, how hard can it be?

Hard, it turns out. After fifteen minutes of fruitless splashing, Grog straightens, panting, mud all over his hands, and sees Keyleth perched on a tree root, watching him with her arms folded over her knees. “Do you want some help?” she asks.

“No,” says Grog immediately. He looks back at the water, waiting for a fish to swim by. Not a ripple disturbs the scummy surface. He waits, but can’t see any fish through the murk, and resorts to swiping through the water to try and catch one.

After several minutes of this, Keyleth says, “You have to be patient.”

Grog straightens, breathing hard through his nose. “You wanna have a go?”

Keyleth slides off the tree root and into a water, becoming a crocodile. She disappears beneath the surface. A minute or so later she reappears, a large fish flapping in between her jaws. “That’s cheating,” says Grog.

Keyleth holds the fish out to him, and he begrudgingly takes it. “Here, Gloomy!” he calls, lifting it up. “Got some nice fish for you here.”

The gloomstalker croaks, eyeing the fish speculatively. “Come on,” says Grog, shaking the fish. It nearly wriggles out of his hand. “I know you’re hungry.”

Swooping its neck down, Gloomy fastens its sharp black jaws on the fish. Grog lets go just in time to save his fingers, and Gloomy tilts its head up, snapping the fish down whole.

“I’m sorry,” says Keyleth quietly, standing at his side. Her hair drips with stinking swamp water. “I shouldn’t have said that earlier.”

Grog sighs. “You’re right, though,” he says. “I’m no good at planning.”

“Yeah, but…” Hesitantly, Keyleth leans into him. Grog freezes, feeling like one wrong move could ruin the moment. “I should be nicer to you. You’re all I’ve got.”

She’s so small beside him, all bones and ragged hair. “You’ve got Vax now, though.”

When she speaks, it’s so quiet Grog can barely hear. “Not for long.”

\--

“Here’s what we need,” says Vax. “We need to know how to banish Vecna. I need my armor. And we need help fighting both Vecna and whatever army he’s got.”

“Our list of allies is pretty thin.” Keyleth turns over the squirrel in her hands, ignoring its protests, and examines the half-healed sores on its stomach. “Everyone’s either dead or left.” The raven on her shoulder cocks its head curiously.

Vax sits on the edge of her bed, looking a little raven-like himself. He’s already got a feather braided into his hair. “What about J’mon Sa Ord?”

Shaking her head, Keyleth says, “Disappeared. I don’t know where they’ve gone.”

“The Ashari? The Ravenites? My father?” As Keyleth says no to each one, his face falls further. “Is there really nobody?”

The mention of Syldor stirs something in Grog’s memory. Something about the Feywild. “What about the werewolves?” he asks.

Both Keyleth and Vax turn startled looks on him. “I don’t know,” says Keyleth. “I assume they’re still in the Feywild.”

“Is the Feywild safe?” Vax asks.

“I don’t know,” says Keyleth, setting the squirrel down. She gives it a bit of bread that it nabs from her fingers. “I haven’t been there.”

“Maybe we can meet that funny satyr,” Grog offers. He sits with his back to the room wall, chewing idly on a strip of meat jerky. “The one who hates the theater.”

Vax laughs ruefully. “Ah, the theater…”

“Would they help us fight, though?” asks Keyleth.

Shrugging, Grog says, “Only one way to find out. “

\--

Keyleth planeshifts them to the Feywild, into the middle of the forest where they met the werewolves. The Feywild doesn’t look like Grog remembers. The colors are paler, the plant life less vigorous. Just quieter and sadder.

“Awooooo!” howls Grog, hands cupped around his mouth. Vax and Keyleth stand close to him, looking around cautiously. Vax has got himself a bone knife, and he flips it nervously in one hand.

They wait, and wait. Grog listens for howling and rustling in the underbrush, but nothing happens. “Maybe howl again?” says Keyleth.

Grog does so. Still nothing. “Well,” sighs Vax. “Maybe we should walk around a bit –”

Something rustles in the brush near them. Grog freezes, his hand going to his sword hilt. “Who’s there?”

Leaves shift, twigs snapping. Out of the brush a face comes towards them, gray and long-nosed, with yellow eyes. A wolf, lean and hungry, drawing warily towards them.

“Oi!” says Grog, bounding forward. The wolf immediately draws back, snarling, ears pinned flat to its head.

“Grog, stop,” hisses Keyleth, grabbing his arm. “Let me.”

Setting her staff down on the ground, she approaches on her hands and feet, not moving directly towards the wolf. Instead she approaches in stops and starts at an angle, waiting for the wolf’s hackles to lower. Half dancing, half crawling, it doesn’t seem like she’s getting any closer until suddenly she’s within arm’s reach of the wolf. “Hi,” she says softly, holding out one slender hand to the wolf. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Stretching its muzzle forward, nose twitching, the wolf sniffs her hand. Ears pricked up, it draws back, and tilts its head up to howl at the sky.

Answering howls rise out of the distant woods. Grog clutches his sword, heart pounding in anticipation. The wolf rises up on its hind legs, form lengthening, broadening, become larger than a man in its proportions. Scrambling to her feet, Keyleth grabs her staff and backs towards Grog and Vax.

The werewolf looks down at them out of intelligent yellow eyes. “I remember you,” she says, voice raspy.

“We remember you,” returns Vax, slowly.

She sniffs, ears twitching as another howl curls through the air. “Lord Ukurat is on his way.”

Oh shit. Grog tries to maintain a stoic face but quivers with suppressed excitement. More howls rise up, closer, and he hears branches snapping and heavy footfalls –

Werewolves crash through into the little clearing, gray and hulking, ragged fur and rippling muscles and yellow teeth. They part in front of the largest werewolf of all, who stands taller than Grog, his shoulders wide, jewels hanging from his neck, ropy scars stretched across his throat. “Vox Machina,” he growls.

“What’s left of it, yeah,” says Vax.

Ukurat bends and sniffs them, nose wrinkled. As his large muzzle passes in front of  Grog a wave of hot, stinking breath washes over him. Ropy saliva hangs from his lower jaw. “You carry new scars,” Ukurat says.

Grog says, “So do you.”

Ukurat’s upper lip curls in a canine smile. “What business do you have with the Fendir?”

“We need your help.” Keyleth steps towards him, staff in hand. “A dark god has taken over the material plane. Help us bring him down.”

Ukurat snorts and blows, tail twitching, and turns to tower over Keyleth. “You mean Vecna.”

She stands straight and undaunted by his bulk. “Yes.”

“We have felt his presence even here,” growls Ukurat. The other werewolves shift uneasily, a couple snarling under their breath. “But how can we assist? The Fendir are strong, but do not compare to a god.”

“Listen, mate, neither do we,” says Vax. “But we’re all that’s left.”

Ukurat’s yellow eyes narrow, and he crouches to be face to face with Vax, his large-knuckled paws resting on the ground. “Just the three of you?”

“Yeah.”

With a snarl of disgust Ukurat straightens. “You cannot do it,” he says. “We will not lend our strength to a fool’s mission.”

“We have a secret weapon.” Grog pulls out the silver spear and Ukurat whips his head towards it, nostrils flaring. “See?”

Ukurat sniffs it, ears flattening. “And you will destroy the dark god with this… little thing?”

“Yeah?” says Grog, totally convincingly, with a sideways look at Vax and Keyleth. “I mean, of course we will.” Ukurat rumbles in his chest, teeth bared.

 “We were given this by a god.” Vax points to the spear in Grog’s hand. “By the Raven Queen herself. She has faith in us.”

Ukurat glares at him. “You stink of death.” He turns to walk away.

Frustration presses up against Grog’s chest, hot and constricting. “Hey!” he roars, and Ukurat stops in his tracks, tail swishing. “We’re not done here yet.”

Eyeing him over one shoulder, Ukurat says, “No, I think we are.”

“No, we’re not.” Grog stabs his sword into the ground, flexes his fists in the knuckles. “We can do this.”

“Can you?” snarls Ukurat, whipping around. “A half-blind giant, a wild druid, and an undead servant of a forgotten god? What chance will you have when all the armies and magicians of the world have failed?”

“Dunno,” says Grog, meeting Ukurat’s glare. He stares into the amber eyes full of wild anger and refuses to back down. “But we’re trying anyway.” The fur on Ukurat’s shoulders rises, and he snarls, low. The rest of the pack draws up closer behind him.

“What if we could prove it?” Keyleth steps up beside Grog. “What would it take for you to stand with us?”

“We’ve already killed the Briarwoods,” says Grog. “You know. Vecna’s right-hand people. Extremely powerful sorcerers.”

“I did not know,” Ukurat growls, relaxing slightly. “That is good.”

Vax adds, “And we don’t need to kill Vecna, just banish him.” He points at the silver spear. “Using that.”

Ukurat eyes him suspiciously. “How?”

“We, ah…” Keyleth grimaces. “We don’t know that yet?”

With a huff Ukurat stands up, backing towards his pack. “Return to me when you know,” he says. “Until then, the Fendir have no business with you.”

“None?” Grog calls after him.

The werewolves turn and disappear back into the forest. Ukurat does not look back at him as he leaves with his pack.

Grog pounds his fist on the hilt of his sword. “Well, shit.”

Sighing, Keyleth slumps against her staff. “So,” she says. “Now what?”

“Now we find answers,” groans Vax, rubbing his hands over his face and staring up at the gray-pink sky. “Who can we ask?”


	6. septicity

Even in summer the Frostweald is covered in snow, but it’s a sad, gray, slushy kind of snow. Grog trudges through under a dour sky, Keyleth and Vax following in his wake. “Are we sure it’s this way?” Grog says.

Breathing a little labored, Keyleth says, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Grog continues his path towards the mountains, keeping an eye out for basilisks. But the forest is empty of animal life, no birds, no critters, nothing. Many of the trees are losing needles. “This looks familiar,” Keyleth mutters behind him. “We should be getting close…”

“Isn’t there an obelisk or something?” Vax asks.

“Yeah,” says Keyleth, and from her tone she’s frowning. “Yeah, we should be seeing it by now.”

Grog squints at the horizon, at something dark that isn’t a tree. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That.” He points.

Keyleth and Vax step up beside him, Keyleth shading her eyes with her hand. “I think that’s the obelisk,” she mutters.

Vax says, “Can’t be, it’s too small.”

“But that’s where it should be… Ohhh, _shit,_ ” and she takes off running, kicking up bits of slush.

“Keyleth!” shouts Vax, and sprints after her. Not to be outdone, Grog runs too, quickly outpacing them. As he gets closer to the mysterious object he sees dark stone, a carved base that’s been broken off about a foot from the ground. Other carved pieces lie scattered around it.

“Oh, no,” says Keyleth, catching up to him. “Oh, _no…_ ”

Grog stares around at the chunks of rock but doesn’t see anything wrong. “I don’t get it.”

“Oh, no no no,” Keyleth keeps saying. She has one hand pressed to her forehead and panic in her eyes. “This is bad, this is bad –”

“Can we still get in the cave?” Vax asks. “If this is destroyed?”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Keyleth seizes Vax’s sleeve. “What if we’re not the first to see the sphinx?”

“Oh.” Vax’s eyes widen. “Oh, fuck.”

“I – I still don’t get it,” says Grog. “What’s happening?”

“I need to scry him,” and Keyleth drops down to the ground cross-legged. Vax hovers by her, concern on his face. Her eyes go blank white. While he waits, Grog examines the chunks of obelisk to see if he can tell anything, but they’re just pieces of carved rock scattered around.

Keyleth lets out a long, shuddering gasp, and Vax immediately reaches over to steady her. She stiffens away from his touch. “It’s not good,” she manages.

“Why?” says Grog. “What’s up?”

Hollow-eyed, Keyleth stares up at him. “They’ve got him in a cage,” she says. “In Kymal. As some part of a… I don’t know, a circus or something.”

“He’s being held captive?” Vax crouches by Keyleth, balancing on the balls of his feet. “How is that possible? We fought him, he was fucking powerful.”

Keyleth stammers, “I, I don’t know. He didn’t look good.” She swallows hard. “I think they blinded him.”

“Shit.”

“So we rescue him, then,” says Grog. It’s the obvious solution. “We rescue him, and then get him to tell us how to stop Vecna. And maybe where your armor is, Vax.”

Vax sighs, standing up straight. The breeze ruffles his dark hair. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

\--

They wind walk over to Kymal, arriving as the sun goes down. Touching earth in a little thicket of trees, not too far from the city, they become solid again. Grog rolls his shoulders, stretching out unused muscles. Kymal seems much the same as it was before Vecna, an untidy collection of wood buildings, orange-yellow lights scattered around it. There is, however, one notable difference.

“Is that supposed to be on fire?” asks Grog.

Several buildings on the outskirts are burning, but it’s a steady blaze, and there aren’t any efforts to put them out. “That’s odd,” says Vax.

“Do we have to sneak in this time, or can we just walk in?” Grog is getting tired of all the skulking around. “I don’t think anyone here would recognize us.”

“What about what’s his name, Scanlan’s old mentor. Wasn’t he living here?” says Vax.

Keyleth sighs. “That was a long time ago. Who knows, now.”

“Let’s just go.” Grog starts walking, out into the open, along the road. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

The streets on the outskirts are dim and dark and stink of garbage. Ramshackle houses crouch along the road, an oily gleam in their windows. But when they reach the main gates in the city walls, they find them closed.

“Ohhh, shit,” says Keyleth roughly, and points to the papers plastered on the gates. “Look.”

There are multiple drawings tacked up on the gates, all sorts of people. Grog frowns, trying to see what Keyleth does. A couple of the drawings look familiar. “Hey,” he says. “There’s a goliath.” He squints, looking closer, and recognizes the beard and missing eye. “That’s _me._ ” Next to him, a drawing of a half-elf with sharp cheekbones and antlers and a tremendous amount of hair. “Keyleth! It’s you!”

“Keep your voice down,” hisses Vax, grabbing Grog’s arm and pulling him into the shadows. Keyleth is a hawk, perching onto Grog’s shoulder. Her talons dig in and he suppresses a wince. “Grog, those are wanted posters. There’s rewards out for you and Keyleth.”

Frowning, Grog looks back at the drawings, at the text underneath. He can just pick out his own name under his portrait. “Why?”

“For killing the king and queen of Emon, that’s why.”

“Ohhhh.” Grog looks up at the walls of Kymal, at the haphazard row of spikes along their top. Guess it’s a good thing there’s no guards around. “Does that mean we’re not going into the city?”

“No, it just means we have to be smart about it. Come on,” and Vax melts into the darkness.

Grog follows after him, Keyleth flying above his head. They end up huddled together in some little corner between two hovels, barely enough light to see each other’s faces by. Keyleth becomes half-elf again, her shoulders taut, her movements twitchy. “I didn’t think we’d be wanted,” she hisses.

“Look,” says Vax. “You can turn into an animal. Can you make Grog one, too? Like a little mouse or something?”

“I don’t want to be a mouse,” says Grog immediately.

“I can for an hour.” Keyleth eyes the city, faint firelight gleaming in her eyes. “But we’ll be here longer than that.”

“Yeah, just to get in, at least.”

The idea of being an animal, something small and fragile and helpless, turns Grog’s stomach cold and uneasy. “We still have your fart spell, we can mist in right now. Then we could just hide up somewhere until we find where Kamaljiori is.”

“I imagine that part won’t be difficult,” says Vax dryly. “They’ll probably be advertising.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means there’ll be posters up saying where to find him.” Keyleth’s voice is soft, and she wraps her hands around her staff. “It could work. We’ll always have it as backup. And you’re not wanted, Vax.”

“Not for now, at least.”

“All right, then let’s go.” Grog closes his eyes, scrunching his face up, and wills himself to become mist.

As they fly up and into the city, they pass over the burning buildings. There’s no activity around them, no one either feeding or putting out the flames. Odd. Kymal itself is not as dark as Emon was, and no undead patrol the streets. The main squares are lit with torches, covered by a patchwork of tents and awnings.

Vax whispers past Grog, towards an area of buildings that are dark and lifeless. Coasting over, they come to an abandoned temple and drift in through the broken windows, into a room that is dark and still. Becoming fleshy again, Grog sniffs the air. It smells of smoke.

“What temple is this?” Vax asks, voice hushed. It still echoes a little off the bare walls.

Keyleth’s hands light briefly with a faint orange glow as she scans the room. “Pelor, I think,” she says. “There was a sun on the front.”

Turning slowly around, Vax says, “Do we want to camp here for the night –”

“No, why?” Grog loosens his sword in its sheath. “What’s the point of waiting? We’re here, we get Kamaljiori, we get out. Why waste time?”

“He’s got a point,” says Keyleth. “The longer we stay here, the more likely it is we’ll get caught.”

Vax shrugs. “Fair enough. But you two can’t go out like this.”

Oh no. Grog sees where this is going. “I’m not being a mouse.”

“Look, Grog,” says Keyleth, reaching out to him, “it’s only temporary –”

He backs away from her. “Nope, not happening.”

“It doesn’t have to be a mouse, just any sort of animal, something that won’t be noticed,” Vax reasons.

“No way.” 

“Grog,” hisses Keyleth, “it’ll be fine, come on, we need to do this –”

“No.”

She glares at him. “Do you want to be arrested?”

Grog glowers back. He doesn’t and she knows that.

“Look, big man,” says Vax, putting a cold hand on Grog’s arm. “It’s just for a little while, all right?”

Irritably, Grog shakes his hand off. “What about you, you can’t just go walking around like that, your face is all funny.”  

“I’ll stealth, don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Keyleth, and points at Grog. He shrinks, curling in on himself, suddenly far too close to the dusty ground.

What am I? he tries to demand, but all that comes out is an indignant yowl. He’s got four legs and fur, a tail. Across from him, Keyleth drops down and turns into a cat, small with reddish-brown fur. Grog hisses at her – oh shit, is he a cat too –

A hand seizes the scruff of his neck and lifts him up. Grog growls steadily, swiping at Vax, but his claws don’t reach. “Hey,” says Vax, holding him up at eye level and giving him a little shake. “Behave.”

Grog keeps snarling, tail lashing back and forth. “All right, fine,” mutters Vax, and drops him to the floor. Shaking himself, Grog backs up to Vax and sprays piss on his boots.

Cursing, Vax jumps away. Keyleth slinks up beside Grog, green eyes wide. Grog hisses at her in instinctive protest.

Rather than try the door, Vax vaults silently out the open window. Grog jumps up onto the sill after him, and okay, being able to jump way more than his height is kind of cool. He drops down into the alley, Keyleth close behind him. The night air is rich with all sorts of interesting smells, refuse and rotting food and rats and bugs and layers and layers of intermingled people scents.

True to form, Vax slips from shadow to shadow, practically invisible. Hoping he looks like a badass tom cat with a missing eye, Grog trots down the alley. Gradually they make their way towards the center of the city. There aren’t a lot of people around, and those they do run across – Vax disappearing into the shadows, Grog and Keyleth darting into corners – move hurriedly towards wherever they’re going. Each encounter leaves Grog prickling with discomfort. He doesn’t have his Knuckles, doesn’t have his sword, and everyone’s so much _bigger_ than him.

Grog can pick up sound, though, chattering and loud music, and heads over in that direction. Wafts of something greasy and fishy hit Grog’s nose and he goes after it without a second thought. He turns a corner, and another, and finds himself among a forest of booted ankles and the rickety wooden legs of stalls.

“Hey, get out of here,” someone says, and aims a kick at him. Grog skitters away, darting under a stall. He wants the fish. Keyleth’s disapproving eyes are on him, he can tell. Finding the stall where the scent is coming from, Grog lets out a raspy meow at the man behind the table.

The man – or halfing, rather – grunts and turns around, his beard dark and curly like pubic hair. “What – here, go on,” he says, spotting Grog. “On your way.”

“Waiow,” says Grog, insistently. Fish.

“Git!”

Snarling, ears pinned back, Grog gets out of his way. Pausing in a corner by a heap of garbage, he’s joined by Keyleth. Grog wants to ask her where Vax is, but can’t, because he’s a fucking cat.

Tail held up like a plume, Keyleth ventures back into the marketplace. Begrudgingly, Grog follows her, and sees a dark shape flitting from corner to corner. Vax. Dodging boots and tables, Grog and Keyleth rejoin Vax at the back of a dark alley. Crouching, he unfurls a large piece of parchment. “Here,” he says, and taps the picture on it. A sphinx, but drawn monstrous with bloody fangs and huge claws. “Follow me.”

Standing, Vax drops the poster, pressing back up against the wall of the alley. Their progress through the city is painstaking, keeping to the shadows, waiting in breathless silence as citizens pass by, turn left here, dart right here, keep round the edges of another marketplace –

A large tent dominates a corner of the square, the canvas gaudy but faded. Lurid posters showing monsters, grotesque people, cursed items, are plastered all up and down its sides. “See the monstrous sphinx!” a small greasy elf shouts from by the door. “Marvel at Tal’dorei’s strongest half-orc!” Despite his efforts, no one enters the tent.

Grog pricks up his ears, tail swishing. Strongest half-orc, he’ll see about that, and very nearly walks right up to the elf. Unnoticed, Vax slips around the back of the tent, and Grog and Keyleth dart after him.

Out comes Vax’s dagger, sliding neatly through one of the seams of the tent side. “In, in,” he mutters, holding the flap open with his foot. Keyleth sprints in, Grog right after her. Vax slips in after them.

Inside the tent it is dark and smells of straw and animals. They’re in some sort of storage area, boxes and burlap bags piled up, with another canvas panel separating them from the exhibits. From beyond the panel Grog hears the occasional growl or grumble, the elf at the front still hawking the strange creatures. Orange torchlights flicker. Pulling his upper lip back, Grog tastes the air. Catches the scent of something strange and wild, a strong musk mixed with the iron scent of blood. Padding forward, Grog slips through a gap in the canvas.

Several cages tower above him, their occupants growling and stinking. Grog follows his nose, trotting over straw towards the back of the tent. Slips under wooden slats to avoid a couple more interested in making out than seeing the oddities. Darts around a half-orc who is definitely not as strong as Grog, sitting on his podium with a glum look. Passes through a faded scarlet panel and into a smaller area filled entirely by one iron cage.

The first thing that hits him is the smell, overwhelming to his cat’s nose. The acrid musk of a large cat, overlaid with piss and shit and blood, and above all the hair-curling scent of infected flesh.

The cage is propped up on wooden blocks, several feet above Grog’s head. Rising up on his hind legs, he can just see inside. A massive red-brown mass of fur and feathers lies there, sides barely moving, one broad paw pressed against the bars, the toe pads inflamed and oozing. No one else is in the room with them.

“Ah, fuck,” breathes Vax, stepping up beside the cats. The mass in the cage stirs weakly. “Are you awake? Can you hear me?”

A long, rasping, indrawn breath. “Yes,” says Kamaljiori, and the rich bass of his voice is cracked and phlegmy. “I can hear you.”

With a whisper of air Keyleth transforms back into half-elf, slowly approaching the cage with one hand held up. “Oh,” she says softly, sounding heartbroken. “I’m so sorry…”

Grog is tired of being a cat. He meows, pawing at her leg, claws catching at her ankle wraps. “Ow!” says Keyleth jumping back. “All right.”

The spell lifts and Grog swells up to his proper size. He can see properly into the cage now. Kamaljiori lies on his side, fur matted, wings tattered and drooping. There are sores crusted around his mouth and nose, and his eyes are two empty sockets. His breathing is wheezy and labored.

“It’s, um, it’s us,” says Vax. “Vox Machina. Well, some of us.”

“Hi,” says Grog. “It’s me, Grog.”

“I’m here too,” says Keyleth. Stepping up to the bars, she lays a hesitant hand on Kamaljiori’s leg. He shudders, russet fur rippling. “Keyleth, the druid.”

“Yes,” sighs Kamaljiori. “I remember you…”

“How did this _happen?_ ” Vax’s voice is thick with dismay. “You were so powerful, you could change time, how did this happen to you?”

“I was strong, but Vecna and his servants are stronger.” Kamaljiori pauses for breath. “They found me, they trapped me, they tortured me. They could have killed me, but Vecna found my humiliation more exciting than my death.”

“Can I heal you?” Keyleth asks quietly.

Kamaljiori’s faint chuckle turns into a cough, thick and painful. “You may,” he gasps at last, sides heaving. “Though I am not sure how much you can do.”

Her hand sinks into the shaggy fur on his side, a faint green-gold glow coming off it. The glow spreads outward, dissipating over Kamaljiori, and the raw sores on his legs and feet and sides close. “Ahhh,” sighs Kamaljiori, his head drooping. “That’s better. Thank you.”

With a soft clink the lock on the cage falls off, the door opening. Grog hadn’t even realized Vax was picking it. “Come on,” says Vax. “We’re getting you out of here.”

“Can you walk?” asks Grog. He eyes the sphinx’s ragged wings. “Can you fly?”

“Fly? No.” Kamaljiori coughs again. “Walk? Maybe…”

“We don’t need to, I can plane shift us out of here,” says Keyleth. “Just get him out of the cage.”

The cage doors are on the short end, by Kamaljiori’s head. Stepping past Vax, Grog leans down to get his head and shoulders in. “Here,” he says, and Kamaljiori flinches away in surprise, teeth bared. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s all right,” sighs Kamaljiori, flexing his paws. His claws are missing. Even ill and injured, he carries presence, twice the size of Grog.

Eyeing him, Grog considers where best to put his arms. “Want some help getting out?”

Kamaljiori attempts to push himself up on his trembling front limbs, but almost immediately collapses. “Your assistance might be necessary,” he concedes.

“Don’t worry, I got you,” and Grog reaches in, hooking his arms under Kamaljiori’s, face pressed into his matted and filthy mane. Kamaljiori hisses in pain as Grog pulls him out of the cage, the stink from his fur filling Grog’s nostrils. “Gently, gently, Grog,” says Keyleth nervously, hovering. As Kamaljiori is dragged out the stink from the fetid straw under him radiates and Keyleth turns her head, coughing.

“Easy there,” says Grog, arms now wrapped around Kamaljiori’s torso as he half-carries, half-drags him out of the cage. Kamaljiori’s hind legs tumble out after him, and Grog’s knees nearly buckle with the weight of the sphinx. Kamaljiori coughs thickly, and his foul breath hits Grog in the face. “There you go,” and Grog lowers him to the floor.

Kamaljiori pants for breath, sides rising and falling. His ribs and hipbones are sharp through his ragged fur. “Where will you take me?”

“To the Feywild.” Keyleth kneels beside him, her hand on his shoulder. “Grog, Vax, come here.”

Grog crouches beside her, puts a hand on her arm. On her other side Vax reaches down to link his fingers through hers. “Okay,” whispers Keyleth. “Here we go,” and the roaring wind and the darkness envelop them.

The smell of straw and refuse is replaced by pine, the dim orange light of the tent turning to hazy silver-pink. Grog inhales deeply, and then something stings along his arm and he swats away a bug. They’re in a clearing, surrounded by pine trees, the grass dotted with small white flowers.

With a sigh, Kamaljiori leans back into the thick grass, his massive wings falling limp. Keyleth gently strokes his mane, works out a tangle with her fingers.

“We do have some questions for you,” says Vax, crouching down by Kamaljiori’s head. “If you think you can answer.”

Groaning, Kamaljiori sits upright, tucking his paws under him, and for a second Grog catches a glimpse of the sphinx’s former glory. “I will try.”

“Good.” Vax settles himself cross-legged on the ground. Sitting down beside him, Grog rests his elbows on his knees. “Grog, do you have the trammel?”

“The what?”

“You know, the spear thing,” says Vax impatiently, holding a hand out.

“Ohhh.” Grog pulls the silver spear out of his belt, watching the weird light of the Feywild run over its polished curves. “You mean this?”

“Yeah.”

Kamaljiori’s blank, blind face turns towards them. “What is that you have there?” he says, with a hint of his former strength. “It reeks of god-power.”

“A trammel, given to us by the Raven Queen,” says Vax. “Meant to trap Vecna.”

Very softly, Kamaljiori says, “Ah.” His tail twitches back and forth.

“We need to know what to do with it.” Keyleth sits beside Grog, her staff laid across her lap. “The Raven Queen told Vax to use it to banish Vecna, but we don’t know how.”

Sighing, Kamaljiori shifts his massive bulk. “There is an incantation.”

“Right,” says Grog, “that’s my specialty.”

Kamaljiori laughs hoarsely, which once again devolves into a coughing fit that racks his body. Green-yellow phlegm spatters from his lips. “You, Grog Strongjaw,” he says once he can speak again. The dark holes of his eye sockets bore into Grog. “You will cast the spell to banish the pretender god?”

“I’m a mighty sorcerer, didn’t you know?”

“What’s the incantation?” Keyleth asks.

The bronze mask of Kamaljiori’s face turns towards her. “Come here, little one.”

“Uhhh…” She shoots a worried glance at Grog. “Do I have to?”

His upper lip curls back in a horrifying smile. “Come here.”

“O-okay…” Leaving her staff aside, Keyleth cautiously crawls over. Reaching Kamaljiori, she puts a tentative hand on his paw. “What are you going to do…?”

Kamaljiori looms over her, three times her size, and a sudden rush of magic stirs the air. Hand on his sword hilt, Grog stiffens, ready to strike if needed. “Take this knowledge from my mistress Ioun,” rumbles Kamaljiori, voice reverberating slightly. “Understand the Rites of Prime Banishment,” and he parts his lips and sighs over Keyleth.

Wind blows her hair back, the grasses rippling around them, and a wave of heat hits Grog. Keyleth gasps, her eyes burning gold, and for a split second a third point of light glows on her forehead. “Oh,” she says, staring ahead of her. “ _Oh._ ”

“Are you all right?” Grog asks, frowning.

Nodding, Keyleth looks up at Kamaljiori, the light in her eyes dimming. “That’s it?” she whispers.

“That’s it,” rasps Kamaljiori, slumping back down, drained. He strains for breath.

“What about my armor?” asks Vax. “The Deathwalker’s Ward.”

“Armor of the champion of the Raven Queen, yes.” Kamaljiori sighs, stretching his paws out. “Vecna has it in his keeping.”

Expression hungry, Vax leans forward. “Where?”

“In the material plane, in Thar Amphala –”

“I know where Vecna is, believe me. Where’s the armor?”

“Locked away,” says Kamaljiori. “Deep in the crypts under the city, in a dusty strongbox. Vecna fears the symbols of the Raven Queen as he fears her power itself. Thar Ampahala itself rests on the shoulders of a Titan, frozen forever more where Vasselheim once stood.”

“That’s fucking wicked,” says Grog under his breath.

Fingers laced together, dark brows drawn down, Vax nods. “Thank you.”

Kamaljiori bows his great head. “It is no great thing in exchange for a saved life.”

“Where will you go from here?” says Keyleth.

“I do not know.”

“Well, we’re gonna see the werewolves next,” says Grog. “Maybe they’d let you join them.”

Vax adds quietly, “I don’t think you should go out on your own, at least not while you’re still healing. The Feywild is a dangerous place.”

“I am aware,” Kamaljiori says, and coughs. Keyleth puts her hand on his shoulder and silently casts another healing spell on him.

“Right,” says Grog. “Can we go find the werewolves now?”

\--

Ukurat sniffs at Kamaljiori cautiously, upper lip curled back. Kamaljiori holds himself stiff, head tilted towards the werewolf pack. “You carry sickness within you,” growls Ukurat.

Despite Keyleth’s healing, Kamaljiori still struggles for breath. “And strength,” he retorts. “Give me time.”

“He’s super powerful normally,” says Grog. “Like, one time we were fighting him, and he made half of us grow old.”

Eyes narrowed, Ukurat snorts. “That would be power indeed.” Another werewolf creeps towards Kamaljiori, reaching out with a clawed paw. At its touch Kamaljiori hisses and jumps back, tail lashing.

“Very well,” says Ukurat. “You may stay with the Fendir, for now.”

Wings folding close, Kamaljiori nods. “Thank you.”

“And you.” Ukurat rounds on Grog, Keyleth, and Vax. “Do you have the answers you sought?”

“Aye,” says Grog, stepping forward. “We do.”

Crouching to all fours, Ukurat brings his face up close to Grog’s. His orange eyes, startlingly human, bore into him. His whiskers are long and scraggly, the scars down the side of his face and throat dark. “And are you sure you can bring Vecna down?”

Grog knows what’s stacked against them. He knows how powerful the enemy is. He knows how many people failed. And he knows how little he has on his side. “I am.”

Nostrils twitching, Ukurat scrutinizes him. Then he stands up straight with a snort. “I am satisfied,” he says. “Meet here after sundown. The Fendir will lend their strength to you, Grog Strongjaw.”


	7. lycanthropy

Two werewolves meet Grog, Keyleth, Vax, and Kamaljiori at the clearing, the sky above them dimmed to deep inky violet. “Follow us,” says one, and leads them into the forest. The trees grow deeper and denser, thick trunks and spreading branches, the forest floor spongy under Grog’s feet. Will-o’-the-wisps dance in the distance, winking in and out of sight. Eventually the tree canopy is so thick Grog can no longer see the sky. Occasionally they pass clumps of glowing mushrooms.

Raising its head, one of the werewolves howls thin and wailing. Far ahead of them, another howl answers. “We are close,” says the other. “Follow, quickly.”

Grog picks up his pace, striding after the werewolves. Behind him limps Kamaljiori, slow and halting, Keyleth guiding him with a hand on his shoulder. Vax brings up the rear, nearly invisible.

After a while, an orange glow begins to appear in front of them. Passing through a break in the trees, they come into the camp of the Fendir. A great bonfire burns in the middle of the open space, ramshackle huts and drying racks scattered around the edge. Ukurat sits on a log on the other side of the fire from them, the light gleaming on his eyes and the jewelry around his neck. The rest of the pack circles around the fire, watching them draw near.

“Approach, Grog Strongjaw,” he rumbles.

Vax, Keyleth, and Kamaljiori halt at the edge of the fire, the pack closing the circle behind them. Back straight, head held high, Grog walks towards Ukurat. Standing, Ukurat shakes his shoulders, mane rippling. “The Fendir will fight with you against Vecna,” rumbles Ukurat. “But that is not the only strength we have to give you.”

Grog considers. “What else do you have?”

Grinning, Ukurat bares long yellow fangs. “Our strength,” he says. “The strength of the wolf, in your blood.”

He’s not exactly sure what that means, but he’s not going to turn down the chance to become stronger. “Sure.”

Ukurat’s grin widens and he stalks forward, towering over Grog. “This is not an easy path,” he growls softly, firelight and shadows dancing on his face. “There will be pain. Your body and mind will change. You will carry this with you the rest of your life.”

“I can handle pain,” says Grog, puffing up his chest.

Ukurat huffs, glancing over the scarred side of Grog’s face. “I can see that,” he says. “Very well. Strip.”

He must have heard that wrong. “What?”

A werewolf in the circle snickers under its breath. Grog glances around at all watching him. Not that he’s ashamed to bare his ass. “Take off your things,” growls Ukurat. “Unless you want them destroyed or damaged forever.”

“All right, hang on,” says Grog, and walks back to Keyleth. Hands her his Titanstone Knuckles. “Look after these,” he says.

Keyleth accepts them, frowning. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Grog?” she says.

“Yeah, totally.” Turning back to Ukurat, Grog strips off his baldric, belt, loincloth, boots, letting them fall to a ragged pile on the floor. Naked as the day he was born, the fire heating his skin, Grog steps forward.

“Hold out your arm,” orders Ukurat.

“Right or left?” says Grog, and then remembers he doesn’t know the difference.

Ukurat’s lip curls. “Whichever you prefer.”

Grog holds out his arm, hand in a loose fist, adrenaline thrumming through his veins. “What are you gonna do?”

But Ukurat ignores him, instead turning to the gathered circle of werewolves. “Fendir,” he growls, pacing around the fire. He continues speaking in a language Grog doesn’t recognize, voice rising to a roar, falling to barely louder than the crackling of the embers.

“Uh,” says Keyleth quietly, “Grog, are you _really_ sure you want to do this?” Vax shushes her.

Ukurat says something and the pack repeats it back, harsh voices surrounding Grog. Another call and response, and another, each one louder. The response turns into chanting, punctuated by howls and the werewolves stomping their feet. Grog looks around him, heart pounding. The wild strains and rhythm of the werewolves chanting stirs his blood, calls to him. Gleaming eyes and sharp teeth surround him, Ukurat looms large behind the dancing flames, his arms upraised as he howls up at the sky. The chanting and stomping grows louder and faster, louder and faster, building, building, building –

Suddenly Ukurat stands in front of Grog. The circle immediately falls silent. Grog stares into his wild eyes, his pulse pounding, stomach humming with energy. With each heavy exhale, Ukurat’s hot breath puffs over Grog.

Steeling himself, Grog holds out his arm, and nods.

Ukurat lunges forward and sinks his teeth into Grog’s arm.

“Oi!” Grog roars, trying to yank his arm away, but Ukurat hangs on tight. Needles of pain sink into Grog. With a final shake Ukurat lets him go and Grog staggers back, bleeding arm held up close to his chest. “What the hell was that?” he demands.

Teeth bared, chest rising and falling, Ukurat watches Grog. Angry, Grog tries to step towards him to attack, but his legs work wrong and he staggers sideways. The firelight casts strange shadows over everything, distorting shapes, turning faces grotesque. Ukurat grows taller and taller, giant. His bright eyes bore into Grog, filling his vision. Fire and shadow, orange and black, and it consumes Grog.

\--

Earthbreaker Groon stands over Grog, arms folded, eyes flaming in his skull. “Tell me, Grog Strongjaw,” he rumbles. “Where do you find your strength?”

In my friends, Grog tries to say, but he has no tongue.

\--

He stands high in the air on nothing, looking at the land spread out below him like a map. The ground is summer green and lush. But from the north a dark plague spreads, growing and growing, killing everything in its path. Within minutes all Grog can see is rotten dark land. Pain pierces his heart, pain and horror, because he knows he’s the only living thing left alive. “Why?” he demands, voice raw. “What’s the point?”

His only answer is echoing silence.

“It’s not fair!” Grog shouts, at someone. Anyone. “It’s not fucking fair!”

\--

Pain, all-consuming.

Like he’s being torn apart from the inside out.

Limbs stretching

Bones reforming.

Tendons stretched to breaking.

He screams.

\--

Grog steps into the arena, hammer in hand. Across from him stands Kevdak, a grin on his face. “Think you can take me down, boy?” he says.

“I know I can,” and Grog lunges at him, hammer swinging through the air. Kevdak parries the blow with his axe, backhand swings into Grog, knocking the wind out of him. Grog staggers, nostrils full of the scent of blood.

“Come on,” says Kevdak, with a smile full of broken teeth. “I could do this all day.”

\--

It burns like fire in his blood. Grog pants, throat and mouth dry as bone. “Water,” he begs, but no sound comes out. “Water, please.”

\--

Keyleth steps towards him, her body made of flames. Her eyes burn like white gold. “Is this your real form?” Grog asks.

“You know my true shape,” she says. Her smile is beautiful and deadly. “Grog. My champion.” And she touches two burning fingers to his heart.

Gulping, Grog stands frozen. “I’m not anybody’s champion.”

“Oh, Grog.” Keyleth sighs, and a wave of heat hits Grog. “You are the world’s champion.”

\--

Grog steps into the arena, hammer in hand. Across from him stands Kevdak, a grin on his face. “Think you can take me down, boy?” he says.

“I know I can,” and Grog lunges at him, hammer swinging through the air. Kevdak parries the blow with his axe, backhand swings into Grog, knocking the wind out of him. Grog staggers, nostrils full of the scent of blood.

“Come on,” says Kevdak, with a smile full of broken teeth. “I could do this all day.”

\--

Groaning, he rolls and writhes. Dirt in his nose. Blood in his mouth. Limbs on fire. His throat is raw and burning.

\--

“Hey, Grog!” says Pike, her voice as cool and sweet as fresh water.

“Pike!” Grog runs right towards her and swings her up into his arms and she’s _real,_ he can feel her, he spins her in a circle and her bubbling laugh envelops him. “I thought I’d never see you again…”

“Oh, of course you would!” Bracing against his shoulders, Pike beams down at him. But as she looks him over, her expression slowly falls. “Grog? What is it?”

“I don’t – I don’t know if I can do it,” Grog admits. Tears come to his eyes. “Take Vecna down. There’s so few of us, and he’s so powerful…”

“Yes, you can.” Pike’s eyes are blue as the ocean, and she looks at Grog with a steady, tender love. “I believe in you.”

“But what if I _can’t_?”

Pike blinks at him, a tousled lock of white hair framing her face. “Well, you’ve got to try anyway, haven’t you?”

\--

Grog steps into the arena, hammer in hand. Across from him stands Kevdak, a grin on his face. “Think you can take me down, boy?” he says. Behind him lies a pile of Kevdak corpses, bloody, each one killed by Grog.

“I know I can,” and Grog lunges at him, hammer swinging through the air. Kevdak parries the blow with his axe and tries a backhand swing, but Grog dodges and knocks Kevdak’s feet out from under him. With a heavy thud Kevdak hits the ground on his back, and Grog kicks him in the ribs. Kevdak curls in on himself, sputtering.

“Come on,” says Grog, grinning, and hefts his axe in his hand. “I could do this all day.”

\--

His nose is full of the earthy scents of mulch and bark. He gallops through the woods, heart pounding, lungs working like bellows. He tastes blood, and it makes him glad. He runs, and runs, and runs.

\--

Grog spins through darkness, never-ending and dizzying. He flails desperately but can’t find anything solid to grab onto. The nothingness is overwhelming, consuming, and Grog shouts simply to make sound.

His voice echoes and echoes and echoes. Tumbling over himself, Grog shouts again. His limbs have no strength in them.

“Grog,” whispers a voice. Soft and light.

He turns, trying to see a source, but nothing. Everywhere, nothing.

“Grog,” says the voice again.

“Where are you?” he calls, but the only answer is his own echoes, over and over. _Where are you where are you where are you._ “Who are you?”

No response. Sinking backwards into himself, Grog lets the darkness claim him.

\--

Groaning, Grog comes to consciousness. His head pounds worse than any hangover, and his arms and legs ache like he’s been fighting all day. He’s lying on something rough but cushiony, and he smells moss and wet dog.

“Hey, Grog” says Keyleth tentatively. “How’re you feeling?”

Wincing, Grog cracks open his eye. Sees the rough underside of a straw ceiling. He’s in a dim little hut, lying on a thick mat. Keyleth sits cross-legged beside him. “Wha… Wha’ ‘appened?” croaks Grog.

“The werewolves found you, passed out in the woods,” says Keyleth. “They brought you back here last night.”

There’s a strange taste in his mouth, and Grog licks his teeth. His mouth is horribly dry. “Could I have some water?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Scooting forward, Keyleth holds his head up with one hand, conjures water in her other palm and trickles it into his mouth. Grog gulps, cool water soothing his throat. “Grog, you – you do know what they did to you, right?”

“Uhhh…” Grog searches his memory, but in between Ukurat biting him and now is only a bunch of jumbled fever dreams. “No?”

Keyleth gives him a strange look. “They turned you into a werewolf,” she whispers.

“What?” Grog nearly sits bolt upright, but his head swims and he falls back to the mat. “No fucking way!”

“Didn’t you know that was going to happen?” Keyleth asks, slightly hysterical.

“Not really.” Grog thinks maybe he’s supposed to be bothered about this, but he isn’t. Sitting up again, slower this time, he inspects himself. He’s still naked, and still very obviously a goliath. “Are you sure I’m a werewolf?”

“Pretty sure.”

Huh. A memory floats to the surface, running through the woods on four legs. Grog closes his eyes and thinks very hard, I want to be a wolf.

His body twists and bends, changing, and Grog rolls to his feet. His four feet. Keyleth scrambles out of the way as Grog shakes himself. Panting, tail wagging furiously, Grog grins at Keyleth. “Yeah,” says Keyleth. “Like that.”

Turning around in a circle, Grog snuffles enthusiastically at the mat, at the walls, at Keyleth. There are so many layered and interesting scents, moss, straw, wood, sweat, earth, and whiffs of many different werewolves.

He bounds outside, into early morning sun. The camp is deserted, smoke drifting lazily up from the smoldering remnants of the bonfire. Kamaljiori lies on his side in a patch of sunlight, breathing deeply, paws twitching in his sleep. He looks much better, the filth cleaned off his face and fur. Trotting around the fire, Grog sniffs along the ground. The scent marks of the pack are thick on the ground, and he raises a hind leg and adds his own to the mix.

Leaning on her staff, Keyleth watches him. Returning to her, Grog considers his form, and easy as breathing changes into his hybrid form. He’s as tall now as if he was enlarged, thick gray fur covering his ropy muscles, his hands giant and clawed. “Fucking A,” growls Grog happily. “Where’s the pack?”

“Dunno, out hunting, I think,” says Keyleth. “They were going to wait for you to wake up but you were out for like three days…”

“How many?”

“Three – never mind. A while.”

Grog’s palm tingles, and he looks down at it. The symbol of Saranrae glows faintly. “Keyleth,” he says slowly, looking down at it. “I saw Pike.”

“You – what? Where? When? How?” demands Keyleth.

“In – I don’t know, I saw her,” says Grog. “When I was out. She talked to me. She says it doesn’t matter if we can’t stop Vecna, we have to try anyway.”

Eyes filling with tears, Keyleth says softly, “Oh, Grog. You didn’t _really_ see her…”

Grog clenches his fist over the glowing symbol. “No, I did, it was her.” He wouldn’t mistake his best buddy.

“Grog –”

“I saw her,” he snarls, hackles rising. “I’m not lying.”

“No, no, I’m not saying you are –” Sighing, Keyleth puts a hand on his arm. “I believe you. Okay?”

“Okay.” Mollified, Grog glances around him. “Where’s Vax?”

Keyleth shrugs, color rising to her cheeks. “Still asleep, probably.”

Eyes narrowing, Grog turns back to his goliath form, getting a better look at her face. “Why’re you blushing?” he demands.

“I’m not blushing!” says Keyleth, turning scarlet. “Am I blushing? I’m not blushing…”

“You totally are.”

Nose wrinkled, Keyleth scrapes circles in the ground with the end of her staff. “Can we – can we just not make this a big deal?” she says. “All right? I don’t see why it has to be a thing.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” says Grog.

Keyleth sighs and pats him on the arm again absentmindedly. “That’s probably for the best.”


	8. peregrination

The mountains loom tall and icy under a steel-gray sky. Backed up against them, where Vasselheim once was, stands a giant the size of a mountain, frozen in dark stone, massive head and shoulders bowed, its arms bent up to support the weight of Thar Amphala. Its face is blocky, featureless. It looks like it was hacked from the earth itself.

“So,” says Grog, hefting his sword in his hand. With the Fendir’s help he’s ground down the broken tip, turned it into a sharpened notch. “Armor first.”

“Yeah.” A cold wind ruffles Vax’s hair; his expression is focused, hungry.

“Is Vecna there?” whispers Keyleth.

Vax nods. “How can you tell?” says Grog.

Brows drawing down, Vax taps the side of his head. “It’s in here,” he says. “I can feel it. Pulling me towards him.” His hands twitch at his sides, towards the daggers at his belt. “It burns.”

Ukurat steps up on Grog’s other side, sniffing the wind. “A storm comes,” he growls. The werewolves behind him – those who chose to come and fight – shift and mutter, ready to go.

“Well,” says Keyleth, and hefts her staff. Blue war paint is smeared across her cheeks and chin, streaked through her hair. “Good thing I’m the fucking Voice of the Tempest.”

\--

There are huts clustered around the crumbling feet of the titan, but all are abandoned. Grog pokes his head into a couple houses, maybe there’s something useful. All he finds is skeletons in tattered clothing, lying in their homes. One room holds a rickety cradle, containing a small collection of bones. Grog leaves and does not look in any more houses.

“Kamaljiori says the armor’s inside the Titan somewhere,” says Vax, neck craned to look up at it. Grog checks to see if it has a dick, but there’s nothing. “There’s got to be a way to get inside.”

Sounding skeptical, Keyleth says, “I could stoneshape a path up, but it’ll take a lot of energy.”

“It’s a long walk.” Grog squints up along the titan’s legs.

“This way,” calls Ukurat. “I smell water.”

Grog jogs over to join him by the titan’s ankle, up against the base of the mountains. The dark rocks are slick with water. “Is he having a piss?” says Grog.

“That water could be coming from the mountain.” Keyleth frowns up at it. “It doesn’t mean there’s an opening to the inside…”

Leaning forward, Grog licks the wet rock. He tastes the bitter metal of the Shadowfell. “This is coming from inside the titan,” he says.

“How can you tell?”

“Tastes like it.”

With a flutter of wings Keyleth turns into a hawk, spiraling up into the air. As she grows smaller and smaller a strange and sudden anxiety grips Grog, what if she never comes back, what if she’s gone forever –

His palm tingles, warm, and Grog closes his hand like he’s holding on to somebody else. Vax stands beside him, the feathers braided into his hair fluttering in the cold wind. As they stare up at the sky, scattered drops of rain hit their upturned faces.

Keyleth calls above them, swooping back down. Reaching the ground, she returns to her form. “There’s a waterfall up there,” she says, panting. “Coming out of a gap. It looks like it could be wide enough for us to fit.”

Stalking forward, Ukurat says, “How will we get up there? We are not all so able to fly.” Grog thinks wistfully of Gloomy, who vanished sometime in the night.

“Can you change us all into birds?” Vax asks Keyleth quietly.

She looks over the pack, assessing. “Yeah,” she says, raising her staff. “I can do that.”

Magic swirls around them like a warm breeze, whispering over Grog’s skin, stirring his blood. He shrinks, feathers spreading out from him, and he flaps on instinct. His wings are broad and gray, and a hoarse screech comes out of his throat. He’s an eagle.

Keyleth is back to being a hawk, and Vax is a raven of course, and Ukurat a large brown vulture. The rest of the werewolves, other birds of prey, gather behind him. The rain falls more insistently now. Keyleth’s cry rings out and she flies upwards, and Grog follows her with all the other birds.

They fly up and up, past the ankle, past the calf, above the knee. A white stream of water plummets from the hip, turning into mist. As they get closer, mist beads Grog's feathers, dampening them, and the roar of falling water fills his ears.

Darting forward, Keyleth perches on a spur of rock. And then she’s a half-elf, balancing precariously miles above the ground, one hand held out as she diverts the flow of water to free the entrance. Vax caws, swooping in, and Grog soars over, into the dark dampness of the tunnel.

“Move down,” hisses Vax, landing beside him, a flock of birds approaching. Grog backs further along, careful of his footing on the wet stone, the stream rushing past them and spraying water everywhere. Vax’s clothes are damp, his hair stringy.

Ukurat lands, turns into a werewolf, shakes himself vigorously. Drops of water fly off his fur. The rest of his pack files in alongside him. “Further down, further down,” mutters Vax, and they make their precarious way along the tunnel. “Nobody slip, all right?”

Grog imagines falling into the rushing stream and being swept out of the tunnel, and his stomach clenches. “Vax,” he says, hurrying up alongside him, “if Keyleth’s holding the water back, how’s she gonna get in?”

Wide-eyed, Vax looks up at him. “You know, Grog, that’s an excellent point, I’m proud you thought of that,” he says quietly, but he can’t hide the worry in his voice. “She’s smart, she’ll figure it out.”

“Just saying,” says Grog. “Because once her water spell drops, we’re all goners.”

The end of the tunnel is a pinprick of gray light behind them. Ahead, the water rumbles, and Grog knows in a split second what’s coming up.

“Everyone GRAB ON TO EACH OTHER!” he roars, punching the rock and sinking one Titanstone Knuckled fist in, seizing Vax around the waist with his other hand. Ukurat lunges forward, claws sinking into Grog, and he hisses in pain but holds on, just in time for the rushing stream of water to hit them at full force.

It hits Grog with the force of a charging bull, nearly snapping his elbow. Grog holds onto Vax and the wall for dear life, head flung back, water in his nostrils, all he can hear is roaring water. The stream grips at him with liquid hands, pulling, tugging, it _wants_ him, and Grog hangs on, teeth gritted, his arm screams in pain –

The water subsides, slows, drops off to a trickle. Keyleth staggers in front of Grog, dripping, her staff held out in front of her and glowing green. “Sorry,” she gasps, arm shaking with effort. “Didn’t think about that. Let’s go.”

In the light of her staff her face is tense and strained. “How long do you have?” asks Grog, pulling away from the arm and flexing his aching elbow carefully.

“Long enough,” says Keyleth grimly.

In his arm, Vax coughs for air, sopping wet. “Thanks, big man,” he says, patting Grog on the chest, and pushes free. “Everyone all right back there?”

Ukurat shakes himself, his long fur sodden. “We lost six,” he growls, crouched almost to all fours.

“Oh,” says Keyleth. “I – I’m sorry –”

“Go,” growls Ukurat.

They head further up the tunnel. Keyleth holds the water back, trembling, and Vax scouts in front to look for a drier route. “Vax,” pants Keyleth, stumbling beside him. “It’s a lot of water ahead – I think it’s a lake.”

He stops and turns around, eyes uncanny in the green light. “Can you hold it back?”

Keyleth grimaces, hand clenched tight on her staff. “For now.”

“If you turned us all into birds, could you make us all fish?” asks Grog.

“Yeah, but then we’d all be swept away – unless –” Keyleth draws in a ragged breath. “Tell everyone to move forward.”

“Oi!” yells Grog, beckoning to the werewolves. “Move up!”

They hurry past him, warm and wet, filling the tunnel with their scent and heavy breathing. “Okay,” says Keyleth once they’re all in front of her, Grog at her side. “Let’s do this.”

She gestures to the ceiling with her off hand and a wall of rock slams up into the tunnel roof. The water flows in again, this time a controlled stream that pools around Grog’s ankles, up to his calves, up to his knees. Keyleth now faces up the tunnel, the air humming with power as she lets the water slowly flood in. Sweat trickles down her forehead.

The water is dark and icy cold. It reaches up to Grog’s waist, to his chest – Vax and Keyleth are nearly neck deep –

“Okay,” pants Keyleth. “Get ready in three – two – one –”

She turns them all into sharks, and at the same time the rest of the water comes flooding through.

Grog fights the current, but it sweeps him back, swirling him up against the stone wall. And then as the tunnel fills and no more water comes in, he can swim, heading up the tunnel, following Keyleth and the spots of glowing green phosphorescence on her scales.

The cold and the dark and the silence is overwhelming. Grog gulps as water flows through his gills, pushing upwards, his body undulating like one smooth muscle. The bitterness and iron taste of the water is stronger than ever, filling his head.

They swim and swim and swim. So long that Grog’s forgotten what daylight looks like, what air feels like, what speech sounds like. And then he feels a splash, reverberating through the water around him, and suddenly he’s a goliath again –

Lungs bursting, Grog keeps swimming towards the only thing he knows, the green light above him. He erupts from the surface of the water, gasping for air. “Keyleth?” he manages.

“Yeah,” she pants, drifting closer to him. The green light hovers over her head, casting oily reflections on the water. Vax surfaces at her shoulder, black hair lank. “Is everyone up?”

Treading water, Grog turns and sees the light reflecting off many pairs of werewolf eyes, tiny points of light in the darkness. “We are here,” rumbles Ukurat.

Keyleth points upward and the little glowing ball floats towards the ceiling, brightening until the entire cave is cast in dim green light. “Shore,” she says. “That way,” and they swim.

By the time Grog’s feet touch bottom his arms and legs shake with weariness. But at least he can stand, unlike Keyleth, who drags herself onto shore and collapses, shivering. “Hey,” says Vax softly, rubbing her back. “Well done. You did good.”

“That was a lot of spells,” she says, sounding close to tears with weariness.

“I know, we’re gonna take a rest,” Vax murmurs, smoothing wet hair off her forehead.

A rest doesn’t sound too bad. Grog sits down with a sigh, smacking the side of his head to get water out of his ears. The werewolves have come to shore and shake themselves, spattering water everywhere.

“Well,” says Grog, his heavy breaths echoing in the still cavern. “We made it this far.”

Keyleth laughs weakly. “So far.”

“We’re in,” says Vax, “but we still need to get into where the crypts are, and they might not even connect to here.”

Grog considers the fall of water and where in the titan this lake might be. “Do you think we’re in its bladder?” he asks.

To his side Ukurat makes a horrible barking, coughing noise, and Grog worries he’s dying until he realizes Ukurat is laughing. “What?” Grog demands. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” chuckles Ukurat, rolling his massive shoulders. His breath steams in the cold air. “You have an original mind.”

Grog doesn’t know whether to be complimented or insulted, and settles for an air of lofty dignity. “That’s what they all say about me.”

They sit together, a pocket of life and warmth in this cavern. Grog checks on Keyleth and sees she’s huddled up against Vax’s side, shivering, as he chafes her arm. “You cold?” Grog asks.

Keyleth nods.

“Well, you’re not going to get anything from him,” says Grog, scooting closer to her. “C’mere.”

After a second of hesitation, Keyleth breaks free from Vax and shifts up against Grog’s side instead. He drapes on arm around her, and careful to avoid her antlers, rests a hand on top of her head. Keyleth sighs and sags against him, and eventually stops shivering as his body heat envelops her. Vax watches, dark eyes unreadable. “Sorry, mate,” says Grog. “But you’re kind of cold, you know?”

The hint of a smile tugs Vax’s mouth up. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

With a final sigh, Keyleth pushes away from Grog. “We should keep moving,” she says.

 _Yes,_ says Vecna. _You really should._

Grog sits bolt upright, adrenaline lightning-striking through him. Several of the werewolves growl in alarm. “Fuck,” hisses Vax.

 _Now, there’s no need to be alarmed,_ croons Vecna. _I’ve been waiting for you. It’s been so long since I had any guests._

What the _fuck_ does that mean, thinks Grog.

Vecna continues, _Come on up. I’ll even clear a path for you._ And with a grinding noise rocks in the wall part, opening up a black void.

“No,” whispers Keyleth, seizing Grog’s arm. “No, we can’t, it’s a trap –”

“You got any better ideas?” Grog asks.

 _Don’t keep me waiting,_ purrs Vecna.

The silence reverberates. Grog holds his breath, waiting for Vecna to speak again, but after several minutes he seems to be done. “Well,” says Vax, shaky, and Grog exhales in a rush. “Shall we?”  

Grog gets to his feet, tapping the Knuckles against each other. “Let’s go.”

“ _No!_ ” Sparks fly out the end of Keyleth’s staff and a shockwave ripples across the water as she shouts, and she glares up at Grog. “What if he’s waiting for us to go in –” 

Grog shrugs. “We’ll figure it out.”  

“What if he closes in the walls around us the second we’re all in that tunnel?” demands Keyleth. 

“He could do that right now if he really wanted to,” says Vax. “Keyleth. He wants to play.”  

“And what if I don’t?” Her shrill voice echoes in the cave.  

“Look, no matter what we do, he’s gonna see us coming.” Quiet, measured, Vax rubs a comforting hand over her shoulder. “We might as well save our strength and use the road he gave us.”  

Keyleth gives him a long, hard look. “So we should just march forward into death,” she says at last, voice shaking. 

“Isn’t that what we’re doing anyway?” says Grog.  

She has no response for him, but her eyes burn. “Enough,” says Ukurat, getting to his feet and shaking himself. “Time wastes.”  

“C’mon.” Grog holds his hand out to Keyleth. “We’re not turning back now.”  

Her hand, slender and pale, tentatively lands in his. Grog pulls Keyleth to her feet and she grips her staff, meeting his eyes with a nod. “Forward,” she says. 

The tunnel is smooth-walled and smooth-floored, slanting gently upwards. But it doesn’t go straight – it twists and turns and winds, until any sense of direction Grog might have is thoroughly fucked. The monotony is nightmarish. Grog begins to think they haven’t moved at all, that they’re still only a few feet away from the start of the tunnel despite having walked for hours. 

“Hang on,” says Vax, from the front, and holds a hand out. Grog walks into him, nearly knocking him over. “Look.”  

Grog squints into the darkness. “What?” 

Stepping up beside him, Ukurat sniffs loudly. “I smell strange air,” he says, low. “We’ve come to a cavern.” 

“Think this is the crypt with my armor in it, yeah?” says Vax, looking back at Grog as he steps forward and disappears over the edge of the ravine. 

Grog yells and lunges forward, falling flat on his stomach as he grabs for Vax. He just grabs Vax’s wrist – Vax shouts in pain as it yanks on his arm – but the combined weight and momentum of both of them pulls Grog down too – 

Large furry hands clutch Grog’s ankles, stopping him. Grog swings into the wall with an  _oof_  but does not let go of Vax. Slowly they are pulled up, rocks scraping Grog’s skin, Vax panting and hanging onto his arm. Finally Grog is dragged over the edge and gets his feet on solid ground, helping Vax scrabble to safety. Keyleth immediately yanks him into a hug. Breathing hard, Grog stares down at the black void at their feet. “Next time watch where you’re walking, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” says Vax, muffled, clutching Keyleth. “Next time.”  

Ukurat crouches at the edge of the cliff, brow furrowed, several of his werewolves beside him. “How will we get across?” he says. “Fly?” 

“Yes,” sighs Keyleth, letting go of Vax. “But this is the last time I’m going to be able to do this today, I think.” She swallows hard and casts the spell. 

They fly over the yawning gulf, a distance far too wide to jump. When they land on the other side, stairs face them, roughly hewn. “More climbing,” grumbles Grog. 

 _Did you think it would be easy?_  purrs Vecna in his ear. 

Grog jumps, looking around at everyone else, but none of them seem to have heard it. He flips Vecna off, knowing he’ll see it, and trudges up the stairs. 

 _Oh, how I missed you._  

Up the stairs, and up, and up, and finally into a room. Not a very large one, but there’s a chained-up skeleton in the corner. “Think we’ve found the crypts,” Grog says.  

“Yeah,” says Vax. He looks vaguely constipated. 

“You all right?” asks Grog. 

Nodding, Vax rubs his forehead and grimaces. “We’re getting closer to him. Vecna.” He sighs, shaking out his arms.  

“If we take a minute I can look for your armor.” Keyleth traces a hand over the carved patterns in the wall. “It should be close.”  

With the amount of walking they’ve done, Grog thinks they must be in the Titan’s stomach by now. A thought occurs to him. “How do we know when it’s time to sleep?” he asks.  

“When our legs give out,” rumbles Ukurat.  

Keyleth laughs weakly. “That might be sooner than you think,” she says, leaning into the wall, and closes her eyes with a concentrated expression. Grog waits, listening to the heavy breathing of the werewolves.  

Slumping back, Keyleth opens her eyes. “Yeah,” she says. “It’s close. Above us. But I need to rest…”  

Biting his lip, Vax considers the next flight of stairs. “Do you think you can make it?” he says, apologetic. “I really want that armor…” 

“Here.” Grog steps forward and kneels in front of Keyleth. “Piggyback.”  

A startled laugh bursts out of Keyleth, the first sound of joy the caverns have ever heard. “All right,” she says, and slings her staff over her back and climbs on. Her arms wrap around his neck, her legs around his waist, and Grog holds onto her under the thighs.  

“Got it?” he asks. 

Resting her chin on his shoulder, Keyleth says. “Yeah.”  

Grog stands – she’s light, too light, carrying her is no problem at all. He dashes towards the stairs, ready to run up, when Vax darts in front of him. “Traps,” is all Vax says, but it’s enough for Grog to let him take the lead.  

But they make it up the stairs without incident, and then there’s more dungeons, and hallways, and even more stairs, and Keyleth haltingly points them through the maze and by now Grog’s back is starting to ache and his arms burn. They come to a room, small, dusty, and Keyleth sucks in a breath. “It’s in here,” she whispers. 

Vax sniffs, standing in the center of the room and looking around. The room is empty. “In the floor?” he asks.  

Kneeling, Grog lets Keyleth down. “No,” she says, stepping forward, the green light of her staff casting weird shadows. Growling, the werewolves gather behind Grog. “I think it’s somewhere… over… here…”  

The shadows in the corners rise up, grins splitting their faces, long claws reaching for Vax and Keyleth. Jumping forward, Grog draws his sword and swings at the one closest to him. It passes through and hits the wall with a jarring clang, the rock splintering.  

Raising her staff, Keyleth shoots a beam of daylight at one of them, and the shadow bursts with a shriek. But though Vax dodges away the second grabs at him and sucks itself into his body. Vax staggers with a weird choking sound. 

Grog pauses, sword held at the ready. “Vax?” 

He coughs and stumbles backward. Then he stills, and raises his head with a weird twitch, black liquid dripping from his lips. “Oh, I really wish we had Pike,” says Keyleth, drawing closer to Grog. 

Pike. 

Dropping his sword, Grog jumps at Vax. But Vax is too quick for him and oozes out of his grasp, breathing weird and gurgling. “C’mere,” growls Grog, lunging for him again. “Let me give you a hug –”

Vax’s head jerks to the side, his eyes rolling. He stumbles and Grog seizes the chance to pin him up against the wall, shoving his hand with Sarenrae’s symbol against Vax’s clammy forehead. He doesn’t know what to do, so he just closes his eyes and thinks really hard about Pike as Vax struggles underneath him, the sharp pain of a dagger plunging into Grog’s side.

His palm glows, growing warmer. Grog grits his teeth and summons heat from his chest, pouring all the love from Pike he can into his hand. White light flares out and Vax screams, steam hissing from his face.

The light subsides and Grog waits, holding Vax up against the wall. Vax coughs limply, spits out a bit of goop. “Thanks,” he pants.

“You’re welcome.” Grog lets him down and steps back. There’s a red mark on Vax’s forehead.

Stones grind behind them. Turning around, Grog sees Keyleth pulling the rock wall open. It spits out a casket, dark wood and metal-bound. “Is that it?” says Vax, stepping over immediately.

Keyleth tries to use her staff to pry open the lid, but the latches hold. “Here, I got this,” and Grogs walks over and with the Titanstone Knuckles snaps the hinges and flips the lid off.

A thick musty smell fills the air. “Hello, old friend.” Vax drops down to his knees by the casket, reaches in and pulls out dark leather and darker feathers. “It’s been a while…”

“Do we want to rest here for the night?” Grog surveys the room, trying to figure out if it’s big enough to fit the whole pack.

With her back to the wall, Keyleth slides down to the floor. The light of her staff turns her skin sickly green. “Yeah,” she whispers. “Let’s rest.”

They just manage to get all the werewolves in. Everyone needs to cuddle up close, and there’s a lot of scuffling and snarling before the pack gets themselves settled. Curled up in a corner, Grog throws an arm over Vax and Keyleth, nested in each other’s arms. With this many warm bodies squeezed into one room the temperature rapidly rises, and the bitter cold fades.

Grog falls asleep.

\--

Morning doesn’t come, but they wake up. Rations are passed out and Grog gnaws on his piece of jerky. And then it’s back up the dark tunnels, up more stairs, climbing and winding with no general direction but _up._

It weights down on him, the darkness, the silence, the closed-in walls. Like the Underdark, he thinks, all those years ago, except then they were going down instead of up.

Eventually – much later – so much later – something about the air changes. It’s cleaner, colder. Ukurat raises his head and sniffs, eyes gleaming. Peering ahead of them, Grog sees a point of pale light. The first light he’s seen besides Keyleth’s staff since yesterday.

“Is that the end?” asks Vax quietly.

Grog resumes walking forward. “Only one way to find out.”

The tunnel takes them straight along, very slightly inclined. Grog’s footfalls echo, each one heavy and significant. His breath and heartbeat are loud in his own ears. The pale light grows larger and larger, and he can see his companions clearer now, the fine bones of Vax’s face, Keyleth’s wary expression. The light is so cold it seems to suck the color out of what it touches, turning everyone gray.

“Is Vecna there?” whispers Keyleth.

Vax shakes his head. “No, farther on.”

They keep walking forward. Step by step by step.

The end of the tunnel takes shape as an archway. The pale light isn’t strong, but after so long in the dark it still hurts Grog’s eyes. Wind blows, whistling down the tunnel, stirring Vax and Keyleth’s hair.

Grog steps up through the arch, one hand held up to shade his eyes. Blinking in the bright light, he looks around at an arena of crumbling stone under an overcast sky. The city of Thar Amphala rises black behind it, one great tower stabbing up into the clouds. A cold mist surrounds them, and the air is thin. Far away, a bird wails, and a black winged shape wheels overhead. Gloomstalker.

Figures march down the steps. Armored figures, swords and axes drawn, but behind their helmets the faces are skeletal and hollow. An uncanny green light shines in their hollow eye sockets. They come up over the edge of the amphitheater, marching down the steps, more and more and more.

Keyleth takes a deep breath, clutching her staff in front of her. Vax draws two daggers, flipping them in his hands. “I think,” says Ukurat, low in Grog’s ear, “that this is where we fight.”

“Yeah.” Grog shifts form, limbs lengthening, snout extending, fur rippling over his body. “I reckon it is.” And he throws his head up and howls.

His howl rises through the air, wild and eerie. Behind him the pack howls in response, filling the air with their cries. Grog’s blood stirs and he snarls, red rage filling his eyes. With a hoarse rattling cry, the lead skeleton runs towards them, sword held overhead.

Grog lunges forward, the pack behind him. With one swing of his arm he knocks the skeleton into pieces and charges into the undead army. Roaring, he punches and bites, Ukurat at his side, and the pack plunges themselves into the fight. Bones clacking and crunching, metal banging, werewolves snarling, the noise surrounds him. His heart thuds wildly, blood pulsing, and the scent of his pack rises around him.

There’s no thinking, just fighting. But it’s a fight like Grog’s never fought before, because no matter where he turns his pack is behind him. If a skeleton strikes at him from his blind spot another werewolf takes it down, and he turns and shatters a soldier about to attack another wolf.   Blood streaks Grog’s fur, and he roars in challenge.

The pack pushes forward, up the stairs, and for a moment Grog can breathe as the first wave of skeletons is crushed. Up on the crest of the amphitheater, he sees a road leading straight to the dark tower.

“That way,” Vax pants, running up beside Grog. Keyleth stalks up after him, a large coppery sabertooth with blood on her jaws. But marching up the road, from the city and towards the tower, comes battalions of soldiers, all undead.

Twirling his sword in his hand, Grog snarls, “Right.” Blood mats his fur on his chest and arms from cuts and stabs. He’ll fight all day if he has to –

“We can’t fight through that,” says Keyleth, a half-elf again. “Grog. We’ll die before we ever get to Vecna –”

He shakes with anger. “So what –”

“No,” growls Ukurat. “You won’t have to make that choice.” He steps up onto the rim of the amphitheater, mottled gray fur rippling in the breeze. Dark crimson soaks the fur on his neck, and bloody foam spatters his lips. “Go. We will guard your backs.”

“Now hang on a minute,” Vax says. “We’re not just leaving you –”

Grog puts a paw on his shoulder, shushing him. “Thank you,” he says, reaching out to Ukurat. The werewolf bares crooked yellow teeth in a grin and grabs Grog’s forearm, claws digging in.

“Fight well, Grog Strongjaw,” he says. “Honor the name of the Fendir.”

“I will.”

The skeleton army marches forward, the sound of their feet like rumbling stones. Raising his head to the sky, Ukurat howls, high and wailing. The pack joins in, discordant, bone-chilling, and a hiss like rattling bones sweeps across the skeletons.

Like a grey wave the werewolves surge forward, rushing down onto the street. They charge into the army and the two forces meet with a giant crash of claws and teeth against bone and metal.

“Run run RUN!” calls Vax, swinging onto the back of sabertooth Keyleth. Grog goes full wolf and they gallop down onto the road, sprinting towards the dark needle of the tower. Through crumbling arches, kicking up dust, the cold air burns his lungs and Grog growls, pushes himself faster, faster, faster –

A terrible howl rises up from the werewolves. Skidding to a halt, Grog wheels around. He can just see the fighting at the end of the road. Fallen skeletons, werewolf bodies, savage snarling –

“Go!” roars Ukurat, faint in the distance. _“Go!_ ”

Grog turns around, raindrops pattering down from the gray clouds above. The dark tower is before them. Teeth bared, he runs forward and up the steps and through the open door.


	9. benevolence

The bottom room of the tower is built from tall, dark arches. The floor, dark stone, is polished smooth with symbols carved into it in regular circles. The scale of the room is immense, so far across that the great carved doorways look barely larger than Grog’s thumb. The walls stretch up and up and up, the ceililng disappearing in shadow. Strange chunks of rock hover at different levels, like frozen falling stars.

“Is he up there?” asks Grog, having turned back to goliath. “Vecna.” His voice reverberates, hollow, off the walls.

Vax walks forward, neck craned to look at the floating rocks above him. “Yeah,” he says, steely. “He’s there.”

A half-elf again, Keyleth crouches to run a hand over the carved sigils in the floor, the grooves wider than her fingers. “I wonder what’s holding these rocks up?” she murmurs.

Grog knows the answer to this one! “Magic.”

“Yes, Grog, we suspected as much,” says Vax, quietly amused. Well, there’s no need to make fun of him.

 _Come up and join me,_ says Vecna. Keyleth’s shoulders stiffen and Vax freezes, and Grog knows they hear him too. _Would you like a lift?_

“No,” growls Grog, the wolf creeping back into his voice.

 _Fine,_ and Vecna sounds almost offended. Was he like this when they first fought him? Grog can’t remember. _I’ll be waiting._

“There’s no stairs,” says Vax, pacing a slow circle around the center of the room. “How will get up? Fly?”

“We could.” Keyleth presses her hand further into the runes, and her eyes close. The earth shivers under Grog’s feet. “Or…”

The runes glow blue. A strange reverberation hums in the air, and the floating rocks tremble. The large one closest to them descends slowly. “We can ride this all the way up,” says Keyleth, voice strained.

“Holy shit,” says Grog. “Are you serious?”

With a grinding noise the rock comes to a halt against the floor. Keyleth stretches her staff out towards it and the stone surface morphs, forming stairs. “Let’s go.”

Vax climbs up, trailing black feathers, and Grog follows after. The rock shivers under them as Keyleth steps up, and Grog braces himself. The top, neither flat nor even, doesn’t make a stable place to stand.

“Hang on,” says Keyleth grimly, and strikes the butt of her staff into the rock. A brief blue glow emanates outwards and the rock shudders again, rising up slowly.

They ascend, passing by other floating rocks and dark arches that open into nothingness. The silence is deathly, the only sound the faint rushing of air as the rock moves upwards. Grog stares up above them, waiting for the ceiling to appear, but the shadow seems endless.

“So,” he says, after quite a while of silence. “How’re we killing Vecna then?”

Vax, his feathers fluttering in the slight breeze of their rising, draws the silver spear out of his belt. “The more damage we do to Vecna, the more likely the ritual is to work,” he says, turning the spear over in his hands. The cold daylight runs over its polished curves. “We knock him down as much as we can. We stab this in his eye.” He looks over at Keyleth, eyes dark. “Keyleth banishes him to the void.”

Grinding his Knuckles together, Grog considers. “Give me the spear.”

“You?” Vax tilts his head. “Why?”

“Because.” Grog holds his hand out. “I should be the one to stab him.”

A brief incredulous smile creases Vax’s face. “Stabbing people is kind of my thing.”

“I don’t care. I want it.”

Keyleth stands with an outstretched shaking hand, pouring out power to keep the rock aloft. “Grog…”

“What happened to you?” Grog says. “Vecna turned you into dust, poof, you were dead for three years and then you came back. You barely suffered.”

Vax’s eyebrows draw together. “Now hang on a minute –”

“I was stuck in the Shadowfell.” Slow, simmering anger builds in Grog’s belly. “I was stuck eating bugs and grass. I didn’t talk to anyone else, I didn’t even see colors. I was alone.”

“Grog, don’t –” says Keyleth.

“And what about Keyleth?” Grog points at her. “She watched you die, she watched our family die, she watched everyone die and she had to keep on going. What did _you_ do?”

Vax’s face twists, and for a second Grog thinks he’s going to hit him. But then he sags, expression crumpling. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I am.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” says Keyleth quietly.

“I don’t care.” Grog still holds out his empty hand, waiting for the spear. “It ought to be Keyleth or me who kills Vecna, not you. I don’t think she wants to do the stabbing, so that leaves it to me.” Rocks pass by as they continue steadily upwards.

Vax looks up at him with those weird black and yellow eyes. Silently, he hands the spear over, but when he presses it into Grog’s hand he doesn’t let go. “I am glad you’re here,” he whispers, intense. “At my side, at the end.”

Curling his stone-encased fingers around Vax’s, Grog nods. “To the end.”

Keyleth draws in a shaky breath, stepping closer. “This is it for you, isn’t it,” she says to Vax. “Either way.”

He nods. Slowly, Keyleth folds her hand on top of Grog and Vax’s, squeezing gently. “To the end,” she says hoarsely.

The rock continues upwards silently, the walls of the tower flashing by.

\--

By the time they reach the top, the air is bitterly cold. Sleet blows in through the open windows. The rock slows to a halt by a broad platform. Grog steps off, the two half-elves behind him. A broad archway opens up onto the sky, and the platform is slick with the icy rain coming in. Stepping up to the archway, Grog finds stairs, spiraling up along the outside. They are coated in ice, and he can’t see the ground, just white mist. “Careful,” he says, and turns wolfish, to coat himself in thick fur.

Keyleth’s hands light up with flames and she kneels, melting the ice.

 _Oh, that’ll take forever…_ sighs Vecna.

“You wanna help?” grumbles Grog.

Silence. Keyleth continues to melt the ice, and they climb up, step by step. The wind and the rain swirls around them, and Grog sticks close to the wall, terrified of being swept off into nothingness below. His fur is soon damp and heavy, ice weighing him down and crusting his good eye nearly shut.

He reaches the top platform and crosses over from howling wind and sleet into silence and dryness. Vecna floats in a bubble of protection from the elements, his robes swirling slowly around him, a green light shining from his eye. “Hello,” he says, skeletal face stretching in a grin. He is far larger than Grog remembers, his hand bigger than Grog’s body. “You’ve made it at last.”

Grog snarls and draws his sword. Daggers in hand, Vax steps up on his one side, and Keyleth brandishes her staff on his other.

Chuckling, Vecna rises higher, arms outspread. The green light swells. “I've waited for this,” he says.

Black wings burst out from Vax’s shoulders. Keyleth half-crouches, her staff humming and crackling with energy. The Sarenrae brand on Grog’s palm burns, and he clenches his fist. Vecna points a bony hand down and a fireball streaks towards the three of them. Grog jumps out of the way, rolling to his feet, and it’s on.

With a flutter of black wings Vax twists through the air, daggers streaking out of his hands.  Running around the other side, Keyleth calls lightning down from the storm clouds to strike at Vecna. But with how high Vecna is floating, Grog can’t reach him, and he growls in frustration.

A hoarse cry sounds above him. Grog looks up at the gloomstalker spiraling down and bares his teeth, maybe he’ll get a couple hits in on this instead –

The gloomstalker skids to a halt on the platform, wearing a familiar leather harness. “Gloomy?” says Grog.

Crouching, Gloomy sidles closer and screeches at him. Grog does not need telling twice. He runs over, leaps on Gloomy’s back, and drives his heels into its sides.

With another screech Gloomy takes off, shadowy wings pumping furiously. Gripping the leather straps, Grog directs it towards Vecna, straight for that bony ribcage. Cause damage. He can do that no problem.

Vecna looms up impossibly large over him and Gloomy banks at the last second, close enough for Grog to strike out with his sword. It hits Vecna on the ribs, striking splinters off. Keyleth’s column of lightning plunges down again and Vecna laughs, pained. Grog smells ozone and charred bone as Gloomy wheels him away, lining up for another attack.

More fire comes Grog’s way. He dodges, though it still crackles painfully over him, filling his nostrils with the scent of burnt hair. Gloomy screams, jaws wide. On Vecna’s other side Vax darts out of the way of a beam of black light. Keyleth joins them in the air, now in the form of a sleek bronze dragon, and a gout of fire pours out of her mouth at Vecna.

Vecna laughs, and it fills Grog with cold dread. He hits at him again and again, carving notches in his sword, and it does damage but Vecna doesn’t act like he cares. Grog yanks Gloomy out of the way of a third fireball and it’s easy to get out of the way, too easy. Vecna moves slow and leisurely and Grog realizes with horror and rage that he’s not even trying. He’s playing with them.

“Come on!” Grog roars, vision red, and tries to stab directly for Vecna’s glowing green heart. “Make this a real fight!”

A massive skeletal hands sweeps Gloomy and Grog aside. Gloomy tumbles through the air and Grog hangs on for dear life until Gloomy can right itself again. “Be careful what you wish for, Strongjaw,” says Vecna, smug.

Keyleth latches onto his shoulder, tearing away robe and gray skin and muscle. Despite the damage done by her and Vax and Grog, Vecna looks untouched, a giant unbothered by buzzing flies. Grog barrels Gloomy back at Vecna to slash at his ribcage again, maybe if he can break through those bone bars to get at the heart he’ll do some damage. They keep hitting Vecna, fire and knife and sword, and through it all he just grins maniacally, occasionally streaking spells at them.

Gloomy staggers to the ground, tongue lolling out of its mouth. Breathing hard, Vax alights beside Grog. Still a dragon, Keyleth darts around Vecna, swooping in to attack him and then wheeling away before he can get a hit on her. “It’s not working,” says Vax. His belt is empty of knives. “We’re not doing any damage.”

Singed, exhausted, soaked with sweat and rain, Grog glares up at Vecna. The silver spear presses cold against his side. “Should we just try and banish him now?”

“No.” Vax’s damp feathers hang limp from his hair and wings, and he says, “He’s still too strong, it won’t work.”

A blast of sickly green light strikes Keyleth, knocking her out of the air. She tumbles to a halt alongside Grog, nearly whacking Gloomy with her flailing wings. Snarling, she gets to her feet, tail lashing. Where the spell hit her, a large red welt rises on her side, scales fallen away. “We’re not getting him,” she pants.

Lowering gently down, arms outspread, Vecna says, “What’s the matter? Getting tired?”

“He’s fucking playing with us,” snarls Grog. “Look at him.”

“Come,” continues Vecna. “I am a benevolent god. Worship me, and I will not destroy you.”

Keyleth hisses, her spines flaring. “Hey, fuck you,” spits Vax.

“Is that what you want?” says Grog. “ _Worship?_ ”

Green eye glittering, Vecna grins down at him. The storm outside the bubble howls, snow swirling. “Yes,” he whispers.

Never. No way. “Why would we worship _you?_ ” he sneers.

For the first time genuine anger crosses Vecna’s face. “You will kneel,” he hisses, robes billowing.

“Make me.”

Pressure like a giant hand forces Grog’s head and shoulders down, curving his spine. Rumbling, Grog tries to resist, but his head is bowed until his nose touches Gloomy’s neck. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Vax and Keyleth slowly crumple to the ground.

“No,” growls Grog. The rage inside him builds, pressing against Vecna’s magic. Staring down at Gloomy’s black leathery hide, he grits his teeth, willing his muscles to move. Slowly, painfully, like fighting through stone, Grog smashes the Titanstone Knuckles together. Energy ripples through him and he grows, Gloomy staggering under him. Renewed strength swelling through him, Grog roars, straining, and the bonds snap.

Vecna recoils slightly. Red haze filling his vision, Grog spins his battered sword in his hand. “I will _never_ bow to you,” he says. And raising his hand, the Sarenrae brand burning, he summons a beam of bright white light to hit Vecna squarely in the chest.

It hisses and burns on impact. Vecna shrieks angrily, the hole in his chest smoking. “Fine,” he snarls, voice dangerously soft. “Have it your way,” and a crackling red spell shoots out of his long finger at Vax.

Vax rolls out of the way just in time, a shattered crater where he once knelt. Kicking Gloomy in the side, Grog lunges upward, and aims right for that hole in Vecna’s chest –

A jet of fire stops him in his tracks. Keyleth pumps her wings in the air opposite Vecna, blistering flame streaming out of her jaws at him. The fire licks over Vecna, burning away robes, charring him. “I said, _worship,_ ” snaps Vecna, and casts a bolt of dark energy at Keyleth. It hits her square in the chest, and she drops through the air.

“NO!” roars Grog, urging Gloomy downwards. Opposite Vax streaks towards falling Keyleth like a black meteor. No longer a dragon, Keyleth plummets, Vax and Grog racing to converge on her but neither will get there fast enough –

Using the strength in his werewolf legs Grog launches himself off Gloomy, rocketing straight towards Keyleth. The wind roars into his ears and he collides into Keyleth, spinning through the air. He curls himself around her, ready for impact –

Pain blasts through him, bones shattering, his vision going black. No air in his lungs. Groaning weakly, Grog blinks blood out of his eye. He can’t move his legs.

Vax lands, wings outstretched protectively, and pulls Keyleth from Grog’s arms. She gasps, color coming back to her face, clutching at him. “Hey,” says Vax, breathless. “On your feet –”

She rolls over, reaching for Grog. As her hand closes on his shoulder warmth sweeps through him, and he groans in relief as his bones knit back together. “Thank you,” whispers Keyleth, green eyes burning into his, before grabbing her staff and running back towards Vecna.

Holding a hand out, Vax pulls Grog to his feet. Still hurting, Grog claps Vax on the shoulder and faces Vecna, sword in hand, blood in his teeth.

In a flutter of feathers Vax takes off, following Keyleth. Vecna’s gaze follows them and Grog knows in a split second what Scanlan would do. “Vecna!” he yells, racing towards Vecna’s feet. “No one worships you, you big bony bastard –”

Vecna whips around to face him and points. Grog sees the deathly beam streaking towards him but has no time to dodge aside –

Shrieking, Gloomy flies in front of Grog. The spell hits it and Gloomy collapses into an ashy pile.

Grog skids to a halt, staring down at the pile. Vecna’s sinister chuckle floats above him. “Say goodbye to your pet.”

“ _No,_ ” says Grog, disbelief echoing through him. “No!”

High above, Vecna laughs. The laugh is cut short as Keyleth summons a blistering column of lightning, straight for the weak point in Vecna’s chest. Tossing aside his broken sword, Grog crouches, snarling, hackles raised, Titanstone Knuckles grinding into the stone floor. Vax, dagger in hand, flies around Vecna like a black menace. And Grog can see it, the cracks in Vecna appearing –

It’s now or never. Grog pulls the silver spear from his belt, clutching it tightly in the Sarenrae hand. “Keyleth!” he yells, running straight towards her. “Fastball special!”

She shifts into earth elemental, stony joints grinding. Galloping with all the strength in his werewolf legs, Grog leaps at her, straight into her outstretched hands, and she catapults him into the air. He soars towards Vecna, but not close enough, his arc is too low –

Something seizes Grog’s belt and with a cry of effort Vax whirls him around and uses momentum to fling him higher. Grog rushes through the air, straight at Vecna’s glowing heart. Howling, he raises one Knuckled fist, burning with holy light, clutching the silver spear, and drives it straight into the green light with a thunderous clap.

The shockwave knocks Grog backwards, tumbling dizzingly through the air. The ground rushes towards him but before he falls a strong wind catches him, lowering him down. Panting, Grog staggers to his feet. The fist he used to stab is burnt black.

Keyleth steps up beside him, leaning on her staff, hair a windswept mess. Paces away Vax picks himself up off the floor, shedding feathers. “Where’s Vecna?” says Grog.

There’s someone on the opposite end of the platform. Human-shaped and human-sized.

Dropping werewolf form, Grog walks forward. Keyleth flanks him on one side, Vax on the other. The figure is an old man, kneeling with his head bowed. “Hello?” calls Grog. “Who are you?”

The old man chuckles weakly. The silver spear sticks out of his chest, dripping blood. His hand his missing, and when he raises his head he shows a missing eye. “Closer,” he gurgles, blood on his lips. “ _Closer._ ”

Keyleth advances warily, staff held in front of her. Rolling his shoulders, Grog paces closer. “Where’s Vecna?” he asks again. With the rage fading, he can feel each and every stinging cut and bruise, inside and out.

“Come here,” says the old man. He is so ancient and withered that he looks like dry skin stretched over a skeleton. “Please. I haven’t seen anyone in so long…”

“Uh…” Grog looks to Vax and Keyleth for explanation, but they just glare down at the old man. He coughs again, red liquid spattering onto the floor.

“Keyleth,” says Vax, steely. “Banish him.”

Holding her staff out, Keyleth begins chanting, low and steady. Her eyes burn, brighter and brighter, and the air hums with magic.

“Please,” pants the man. He shuffles forward on his knees, face stretched in a hopeful grin. “Don’t leave me. You won’t leave me alone, right? I’ve been alone for so long…”

Keyleth’s chanting grows louder. The vibrations are so strong Grog feels them in the soles of his feet, in the pit of his stomach. The silver spear is still sticking out of the old man. “Oh wait, hang on,” he says, but he can barely hear himself. “We should take this back.” And he reaches for the spear.

“Grog!” shouts Vax, but as Grog’s hand wraps around the silver spear, there’s a blinding flash of white, and the world disappears.

\--

Grog floats in nothingness. The darkness presses down on his eye, fills his throat. “Hello?” he says.

Three faces appear, female, larger than him. One is oval-shaped and dark-skinned, and her white-gold hair surrounds her face like dancing flames. The one in the middle is veiled in gray, but Grog catches a flash of bright eyes behind the veil, ancient and terrible. And on the right floats a great pale moon of a mask, her eyes dark slits, blackness surrounding her.

“Well,” says the gray one in the middle. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

“He’s not meant to be here, is he?” The white-haired one laughs, and it sounds like crackling embers. In the light of her hair more of her body appears, strong and lithe. She’s wearing flowy white clothes, and Grog realizes he’s naked.

“No.” The moon-faced one looms closer to Grog, raven feathers tumbling down around her shoulders.

“I know you,” he says to her. “You’re the Raven Queen.”

She inclines her head.

“Look,” says Grog. “I know you’re supposed to take Vax back. Instead of him, take me.”

The three goddesses are silent. “Why?” says the Raven Queen at last, very quietly.

“Because.” Grog pauses, struggling to say what he wants. “Because Keyleth loves him.”

“She loves you, too.”

At a loss for words, Grog floats in the empty space. “Not in the same way,” he says at last.

“No,” says the white-haired one. Her voice rings with joy, tightly controlled, and Grog feels like if she let that joy free it would destroy him. “But that doesn’t make it any less important, does it?”

“Vax’ildan has done what I sent him to do,” says the Raven Queen, gentle and somber. “It is time for him to return to me. But I will not forget your offer.”

“Oh,” says Grog. “That’s… good?”

The gray one shifts restlessly, and her veils rustle with the sound of folding paper. “The Whispered One was successfully banished,” she says. “I think this one has earned his rest.”

“Would you like to rest, Grog?” The white-haired one smiles at him, her eyes like live coals. “Pike is waiting to see you.”

Pike. Grog’s heart longs to see her so much it nearly bursts out of his chest. But he knows, deep down, what needs to be done. “No,” he says slowly. “I mean, I want to see her. More than anything. But I can’t leave Keyleth all alone, you know? Besides.” He rolls his shoulders, flexing. “I reckon there’s still a lot of work to do even with Vecna gone.”

“Oh, I like him,” says the white-haired one.

“Very well.” The gray one draws herself up, eyes flashing. “Continue, Grog Strongjaw. Tell your story.”

“Uh – all right,” he says. “But what does that –”

\--

With a gasp he opens his eyes. He’s lying on his back on cold stone as snow falls down on him, the sky above stormy gray.

“Grog!” Keyleth bends over him, her tangled locks of hair swinging in her face. Her hand on his cheek is warm. “I thought you were dead…”

“Me? Nah…” Groaning, he sits up. The injuries from the fight are still there. Darkness moves in the corner of his eye, and he looks over and sees the Raven Queen, her masked face floating above her dark flowing robes.

“No,” says Keyleth. She surges to her feet, grabbing Vax’s arm. “No, you can’t, it’s too soon –”

“He’s done what he needs to do,” says the Raven Queen. “Keyleth. Let him go.”

Vax folds his arms and wings around Keyleth, and she grips him tight, pale fingers sinking into his dark shoulders. “No,” is all Keyleth keeps saying, shaky and tearful. “No, no, no…”

“Keyleth.” Pulling away, Vax cups her face in his hands, presses his lips to her forehead. “We’ll see each other again. All right?”

“No,” she whispers.

“I’ll be waiting on the other side,” he promises. He kisses her once and then steps away, snow landing on his hair and shoulders.

Standing, Grog walks over to Keyleth, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Let him go,” he says quietly.

“ _No!_ ” screams Keyleth, and Grog seizes her around the waist, keeping her from lunging after Vax. She cries and struggles in his arms, antlers whacking him in the face, as Vax paces slowly towards the Raven Queen. Her robes extend like two great wings, enveloping him. When the darkness fades, Vax is gone.

Shaking, Keyleth slumps against Grog. The tears on her cheeks freeze in the cold air. “I know,” says Grog, wrapping his other arm around her shoulders. She turns into his chest, gasping, and he holds her close. “Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

\--

Grog sits on the top of Keyleth’s tree, watching the sun rise. The morning air is warm and dewy, and a chorus of frogs trills in the swamp. Absentmindedly, Grog rubs his thumb over the Sarenrae brand on his palm. A little tingle of warmth goes up his arm.

With a flutter of sparrow wings, Keyleth alights next to him. “Couldn’t sleep?” she says, balancing on the branch next to him.

Grog shrugs. “Not really. You?”

The answer is in the hollows in her cheeks and the circles under her eyes. “I was thinking,” she says quietly. “Now that Vecna’s gone. My people might want to return to Exandria.”

“Yeah?” says Grog. “You gonna go find them?”

Keyleth sighs, long and slow. The rising sun brings some color to her cheeks. “I’d like to,” she says. “Grog. Would you come with me?”

Grog considers. “To where? The air plane?”

Nodding, Keyleth looks at him. Her hand finds his, squeezing it gently. “Come with me,” she says. “By my side. As a friend.”

Grog smiles at her, and it feels strange on his face, but good. His first real smile in a long time. “Keyleth,” he says, “I’d be honored.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In its own strange way, this fic, as dark as it is, is a love letter to Grog and by extension Travis. The more I (rew)watched of campaign 1, the more I became aware of how Grog is as complex a character as any of the other members of Vox Machina, a complexity I didn't see fandom explore, and I wanted to write a fic that gave him his due. Plus, you know, making Grog a werewolf, which I can only imagine would be as exciting for Travis as it was for Grog.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


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